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[E DEVOTED WIPE ; 



OR, 



CALIFORNIA IN '49 AND '50, 



A PLAY IN FIVE ACTS. 



By A^LBERT BRE]\\rSTER 



PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR. 



ALTA CALIFORNIA JOB PRINTING HOUSE, 529 CALIFORNIA ST. 
1874. 



THE DEVOTED WIFE ; 



OR. 



CALIFOIIXIA IX '49 AXD 'oO, 



A PLAY IX FITE ACTS. 



By i^LBERT BREAVSTER 



PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR. 



^an ^rauci.sco: 

ALTA CALIFORNIA JOB PRINTING HOUSE, 529 C.AXIFORNIA ST. 
1874. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in tlie year 1874, 

By albert BREWSTER, 

In the oflBce of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



TMP92-008696 



DRAMATIC PERSONS. 



Frank Sumner, Government Clerk. 

Ida Sumner, Wife of Frank Sumner. 

Gracie, aged four, and Agnes, three ; Children of Mr. and Mrs. 

Sumner. 
Mr. Frederic Went worth. 
Mrs. Frederic Wentworth. 
Miss Grace Wentworth. 
Mr. George Wentworth. 
Mr. Henry Redington, Millionare. 
Ike Tompkins, Tool of Redington. 
Mrs. Hopkins, Mistress of Lodging House. 
Mr. James Hamilton. 
Mr. Charles Raymond. 
Sarah, Colored Servant. 
Doctor Erskines. 
Mountain Tom, Veteran Hunter. 
Harry Hogan, Backwoodsman and Miner 
Bill. 1 
Jim. I 

Dan. I 
Joe. 
Will. 
Bob. I 
Steve. \ 
Jake. J 

Landlord op Miner's Tavern. 
Other Miners. 
Servants. 



Miners. 



COSTUMES. 



Frank Sumner, at Washington City and San Francisco, fash- 
ionably dressed; at mines, in miner's costume 

Ida Sumner and children, in first act, fashionably dressed ; in 
third act, poorly dressed in first scene; fourth scene nicely 
dressed ; at mines, neat traveling costume ; at San Fran- 
cisco, in fifth act, handsomely and fashionably dressed. 

Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth, handsomely and fashionably 

r\ T*PQGIP(i 

George Wentworth, handsomely and fashionably dressed. 

Grace Wentworth, elegantly dressed. 

Harry Reddington, fashionably dressed until seen at the 

mines ; then policeman's dress, with star. 
Mrs. Hopkies, plainly dressed. 
James Hamilton, fashionably dressed. 
Charles Raymond, miner's costume. 
Doctor Erskink, business suit. 
Mountain Tom, as hunter, buckskin dress and leggms, fur cap, 

belt with knife ; carrying a long, old-fashioned rifle. 
Harry Logan. 



Bill. 

Jim. 

Dan. 

Sam. 

Joe 

Will. 

Bob. 

Steve. 

Other Miners. 

Landlord, same as miners. 

Ike Tompkins, dress common and slouchy 



As miners, red or blue flannel shirts, 
red predominating, high-topped boots, 
slouched hats, revolvers and knives in 
in their belts. 



THE DEVOTED AVIFE 

OK, 

CALIFORNIA IN 'lO-'SO. 



ACT FIRST. 

Place : Washington City, D. C. 

[Scene : Private parlor of boarding house. Present, Mr. 
Frank Sumner holding in his hand a daily paper ; also present, 
his wife Ida ; both seated.] 

Frank 8umner. So you. perceive, dear wife, that the news 
from the gold mines of California continue favorable ; thou- 
sands are there engaged in reaping the golden harvest, and — 

Mrs. Sumner. I do wish Frank, you would converse of some- 
thing else ; what are the gold fields of California to us ? Is 
not your salary sufficient for our support ? has it not proved so 
for the five years of our married life ? Say, dear husband, have 
we not been happy 'till. now ? so why not be content as in the 
past ? 

Mr. Sumner. {Rising.) Because, dear Ida, an opportunity 
now offers to better our condition, and I consider it my duty to 
provide for our future ; our little ones are growing up ; what 
provision is there for them ? nothing — absolutely nothing I 
Should I be taken away, where are the means of their and your 
own support ? Out of the miserable pittance I earji as govern 
ment clerk it is impossible to lay aside anything ; think of it ! 
one thousand dollars a year ; why it would not pay for the dia- 
mond ring you wore upon your finger when in your father's 
house. I desire, beloved wife, to surround you with the comforts, 
the luxuries to which you were accustomed prior to our marriage. 
1 cannot bear to see you endure the deprivations incident to our 



6 The Devoted Wife; • 

present position. So, dearest, consent to my going to California, 
and in a few years I shall be able to restore you to that position 
in life you would so grace. 

Ida. {Rising.) Yes, dear Frank ; but if I am content ; if I 
feel not the deprivations to which you allude, and am happy 
now ? Your aflfection and society are more to me than all the 
world's wealth. Did you propose to take me and our loved 
children with you, it would be different; but to think of our 
remaining here, while you are thousands of miles distant, en- 
during the toils and hardships of a miner's life. Oh ! Oh dear 
husband ! how, how can you think of it ? and — and then you talk 
of going by land ! The dreadful idea of your crossing the plains 
— the dangers you would have to encounter : The Indians might 
kill and scalp you on the way ; but if they did not, the grizzly 
bears and lions, or those dreadful wolves they call coyotes, 
might devour you — Oh ! Oh ! don't, don't speak of it more ; but 
if you love me dear Frank, abandon the thought, the idea of 
leaving for California. 

Frank. If I love you, dear wife ? why, do you not understand 
that it is my great love that impels me to this step ? love for you 
dearest, and our little ones. 

Ida. Yes, yes, dear Frank ; I know you think so, but is it not 
rather the greed for gold that seems now to have taken posses- 
sion of men's minds ? the coveting of riches, ambition, and — 

Frank. Admitting all you say, darling ; yet for whose sake 
do I covet wealth ? for whom is my ambition ? Is it not for my 
cherished ones? 

Ida. Oh ! talk not so, my husband ; what shall I care for 
riches, if to gain them you must imperil health, even life, by 
engaging in unacustomed toil, for which your habits of life 
have unfitted you ? How many go to the gold fields never to 
return ? to think of your lying ill, perhaps dying, in some lone 
mountain canon ; with none by to care for or to sooth your an- 
guish ! Oh ! Oh ! think of it my husband ! 

•Frank. But why think of it, darling, since they are only 
imaginary ills ? so banish them from your mind ; cease to dwell 
on the dark side of the picture, and look instead at the bright 
side. Imagine at the end of one or two brief years of separa- 
tion our joyful reunion ; yourself and our little darlings sur- 
rounded by all the luxuries, the elegancies of life to which in 
your girlhood you were accustomed ; think of — 

Ida. But Frank, do you not see that these are but dreams 
that may never be realized, while the evils I speak of are proba- 
bilities ; yes, strong probabilities, as my presentiinent of coming 
perils and misfortunes tell me. So, dear, dear Frank, for 



Oe, Califobnia en '49 and '50. t 

Heaven's sake listen to me ; be advised by your wife wlio so 
loves you, and for my sake — 

{Enter Miss Grace Wentworth.) Good morning ; excuse my 
so unfashionable call. 

Ida. Oil ! Grace ! I am always so glad to see you • so speak 
not of unfashionable calls. 

Frank. Good morning, Miss Wentworth. 

Miss Wentworth. Thank you, Mr. Sumner; but now you just 
tell me what you have been saying to grieve dear Ida ? I see the 
tear-drops in her sweet eyes ; so confess at once ; tell me, Ida, 
what is it, has he been cross ? or — 

Ida. No ; not cross, but oh ! so inconsiderate ! why he is 
talking of leaving me, 

Grace. Oh ! the naughty man — of leaving you to go to his 
oflBce I suppose ; ha ! ha ! but then men are never reasonable you 
know, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Ida. Oh ! oh ! Grace dear ! don't laugh, please ; he is talk- 
ing of leaving me to go to California. 

Grace. To California ? 

Ida. Yes, yes, to go to California. 

Frank. Now, Miss Wentworth, please don't look so astonish- 
ed, but just come to my assistance. I have been trying to show 
Ida how much better it would be for us, if, instead of remaining 
here, where it is impossible for me to make any provision for 
the future. I should go to the gold mines in California, where 
fortunes are being rapidly acquired by thousands, and thus, in 
one or two years be able to surround her with comforts, and 
even the luxuries of life ; do you. Miss Wentworth, see anything 
so very unreasonable in the idea ? 

Grace. Well, no ; I can't say that I do. I think it the duty 
of a man to better the condition of his family if he can ; now 
Ida, dear, don't look so reproachfully at me. 

Ida. Oh, Grace ! Grace ! 

Frank. Don't blame Miss Wentworth, dear ; she has but ex- 
pressed the opinion of all, not blinded by affection as yourself, 
and you too will one day confess that I am right, and rejoice 
that you consented to my going. 

Ida. Why Frank, how you talk ! I am sure I have given no 
consent ; what mean you ? 

Frank. But then dearest, you will, you know. 

Ida. I think not, dear Frank. 

Grace. Indeed, I think you will Ida, since 'tis for your good 
and future happiness he desires to go. Oh, if I were a man, I 
would go to-morrow ! only think of it ! Instead of spending 



8 The Devoted Wipe; * 

ones life in unrenumerative toil, just have to walk round and pick 
up great lumps of gold. Why, it would be delightful! just 
think of it ! 

Ida. Why, Grace, what are you saying ? just walk about and 
pick up lumps of gold ? why don't you know, they have to dig 
way down deep in the giound to find gold? 

Grace. Ridiculous ! surely you don't read the papers ; or you 
would never entertain such absurd ideas ? Why, the papers are 
filled with accounts of men picking up great pieces of gold, 
worth from forty to fifty thousand dollars; and any quantity of 
lumps, worth from five to ten thousand dollars ; tho' why they 
should pick up five thousand dollar nuggets, when they could 
just as well pick up those worth fifty thousand dollars, is more 
than I can imagine ; unless 'tis because they are easier to carry, 

Frank. Ha! ha! ha! I perceive Miss Wentworth, you look 
at the bright side, instead of like Ida, the dark side. I am 
afraid your picture of gold mining is somewhat overdrawn ; 
don't think I shall be above picking up those five thousand dol- 
lar nuggets, especially as you suggest they are so much easier 
to carry, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Grace. Why, I don't see anything so unreasonable in what 
I say, since the papers are all filled with such accounts ; and 
Ida, just think how nice it will be when you are rich again ; 
why, you used to dress so elegantly ; and now — excuse me dear , 
— but that hat you wear is shockingly unfashionable ; why, Mr. 
Sumner, do you not get Ida a new hat ? 

Frank. Certainly ; if, as you say, hers is out of fashion. 

Grace. Oh ! oh ! out of fashion, and she has been wearing it 
more than a year. Out of fashion ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Ida. Don't mind her Frank ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Frank. Certainly, dear Ida, you must have a new hat ; men 
■don't understand these things you know, so go to-day and pur- 
chase yourself a new hat, and a handsome one. I think the 
one Miss Wenthworth has on very pretty, and that it would be- 
come you ; but get the best, dearest ; here is the money. I sup- 
pose two dollars will do? 

Grace. Oh ! oh ! ha ! ha ! ha ! — you ridiculous man, ha ! ha ! 
ha! 

Ida. Oh ! dear, dear, Frank, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Frank. What, is not that enough ? 

Grace. Is not that enough ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! oh ! oh ! — you — 
you men ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Ida. Never mind Frank ; ha ! ha ! ha ! — but if you wish me 
to purchase a new hat, let me have five dollars, please ; though 
I think it will not be exactly like the one Grace has on, ha ! ha ! 
ha! 



Or, California in '49 and '50. 

Wank. Certainly, dearest ; here is five dollars, but if that 
will not buy as nice a one as your fair friend's, of course you can 
have more. 

Ida. Why Frank! don't you know I can't wear such hats as 
dear Grace? ha! ha! ha! Why the feather in her hat cost 
three times the sum you present me. 

Frank. What, fifteen dollars for a feather ! Well, if that is 
the case, I think the sooner I start for California the better. 

Grace. But tell me, Mr. Sumner, didn't you know dear Ida's 
hat has been out of fashion the past year ? 

Frank. No, Miss Wentworth, I did not ; she always ap- 
pears lovely in my eyes, wear what she will ; and men don't 
notice such things as the ladies do ; and so — 

Grace. Notice! no, I should think not; men are all alike; 
dress as you please, they never observe — 

Frank. Ah, then Miss Wentworth, just please inform me 
why fashionable ladies go to such expense in dressing ? since, 
as you say, we men are ■ o unobservant ? ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Grace. Why — why — to be fashionable, and to excite the envy 
of the ladies, ha ! ha ! ha! 

Frank. Very commendable indeed; a most, cogent reason, 
certainly — ha! ha! ha ! — but office hour has arrived, I see, and 
the slaves of the treadmill must to work ; so adieu. Miss Went- 
worth. Good-bye Ida, love ; I hope your fair friend will talk 
you into a more reasonable state of mind concerninir my de- 
parture for the land of gold. {Exit.) 

Ida. Oh, dear Grace ! how could you ! how could you so en- 
courage Frank in his idea of going to California? 

Grace. Dear Ida, I only said I could not blame him for wish- 
ing to better his fortune, and how could I? when I know 'tis 
for your sake he desires to go. 

Ida. Yes, yes, dear Grace ; I know you intended well, 1)at — 
but oh, Grace ! — how, how can I let him go? But I will not 
think of it more ; perhaps it \v\\\ never come to pass. I have 
promised Frank that in case he should lose his office I would 
give my consent ; but as that is nowise likely I will not borrow 
trouble. 

Grace. But where are my little pets ? Where is little 
Gracie? my namesake. 

Ida. They have gone out with their nurse to tak;^ a walk ; 
they will be in soon ; lay aside your things and .spend the day, 

Grace. Impossible; I have promised Mr. Redington to accom- 
pany him in a ride to-day, so must soon be going. How kind it 
was of you, Ida, to leave him for me to captivate, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Ida. Oh, Grace ! do you nuan what you say ? 

Grace. Why yes, certainly ; why do you ask ? 



10 The Devoted Wife; 

Ida. Oh, Grace ! I — I don't like to say it — but indeed I don't 
think Mr. Redington would make you happy. 

Grace. Why, Ida, what mean you ? — not make me happy ! — 
why not ? he is perfectly devoted, and my fair friends are all so 
envious because I have captivated the elegant millionaire, ha ! 
ha! ha! 

Ida. Oh, Grace ! tell me, do you really love him ? 

Orace. Well, really Ida, that is a plain, and I must confess, 
a puzzling question ; I like him, and in time may learn to love 
him. 

Ida. Now, Grace, don't be in too much haste ; indeed Grace, 
I think you would do better to accept Mr. Hamilton ; he is the 
soul of honor, and I know is devoted to you. 

Grace. Why, Ida, how could I accept him ? you know he has 
gone to California. I confess I esteemed — yes, liked Mr. Hamil- 
ton — but then leap-year only comes once in four years, you 
know, ha! ha! ha! 

Ida. Yes, Grace ; but I think it was the fact of your being 
an heiress that prevented Mr. Hamilton from offering himself; 
and that he has gone to California in pursuit of fortune, that he 
may some day be able to offer it with his hand for your accept- 
ance. 

Orace. Ah, but that is a mere supposition. The saying is, 
"a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush" — ha! ha! ha! 
I^t us go in the other room, and favor me with a little music, 
and then I will take my departure. 

Ida. Certainly, dear Grace {Exit.) 



Scene Second: Interior Martdon, Library. 

[Enter Henry Redington.J 

Henry Redington. Well, well, the game commences ; have 
played my first trump ; it is now office hours for government 
clerks. Think Frank Sumner will be somewhat surprised to 
find upon his desk that interesting note from the department, 
informing him that Uncle Sam will dispense with his farther 
services ; and yet the fool will never suspect to whom he is in- 
debted for that so interesting missive. Ha! ha! am I not his 
friend? — ha! ha! ha! — does he not feel proud of his intimacy 
with Harry Redington, the millionaire? — hai ha! ha! Fool, 
fool, to think that the man who proved the successful rival of 
Harry Redington could ever count on him as a friend — ha ! ha ! 
ha! ' 



Ok, California in '49 and '50. 11 

[Enter Frank Sumner.] 

Redington. Ah, Frank, is that you? Glad to see you ; was 
just this moment thinking of you ; but how in the dickens hap- 
pens it that you call in office hours ? is Uncle Sam getting to 
be less exacting ? or — 

Frank. Redington, just read that interesting missive I found 
on my desk when I entered the office this morning ; it will ex- 
plain all. {Presents note ; Redington reads.) 

Redington. Why Frank, what is the meaning of this ? Dis- 
missed from office ? What the devil is up ; what is the cause, 
the reason assigned ? 

Frank. Can't say : government departments never deign to 
enter into explanations. Clerks work on with the noose around 
their necks, liable to be choked off any moment. 

Redington. I will be hanged if I can understand ; but indeed, 
Frank, I am real sorry for this ; but if there is anything I can 
do for you as a friend, you may count on me. If a few thou- 
sands will be of service, it is at your command. 

Frank. {Taking him hy the hand.) Redington, I thank you 
for your sympathy, your kind and generous offer. I am none 
the less grateful for your offer, though I decline it ; but I have 
my plans for the future. You know I was talking of starting 
for the gold mines of California, and you approved the idea ; so 
the loss of office will but hasten my departure. 

Redington. I can but admire your manly independence, and 
the energy and enterprise that prompts you to seek in California, 
the wealth that but awaits the seeking ; but a friend should not 
refuse from the hand of a friend a trifling favor ; so if you need 
a few hundred for expenses, j ust name the sum, and — 

Frank. No, no; thank you, my friend, I have sufficient. 
Nevertheless your kindness will never be forgotten. 

Redington. Nonsense, don't speak of it Frank; but how 
does Mrs. Sumner regard your loss of office, and your contem- 
plated departure for California ? I recollect you said she had 
promised her consent, in case you should lose your clerkship. 

F'ank. I have not as yet informed her of my loss of office. 
I have not been home since my discharge ; as you say, in that 
event she has consented, but persists in that case in the idea of 
accompanying me. But I can not think of subjecting her to 
the hardships and deprivations she would have to endure. What 
think you, Redington ? 

Redington. You are perfectly correct. It would be cruelty 
to Mrs. Sumner to have her with you. Accustomed as she is 
to the refinements of life, it would be far from kindness on your 
part to place her in a miner's cabin ; don't mention this to Mrs. 
Sumner as coming from me. I never like to appear in opposi- 



12 The Devoted Wife; 

tion to the ladies ; you know I am a ladies' man, ha ! ha ! ha! so 
would not like to incur their displeasure ; yet I must say I 
should never so take advantage of any woman's affection, as to 
subject her to suflfering-s and hardships, of which, having never 
experienced, she could he no judg'e. 

Frank. You have but expressed my sentiments. I cannot 
subject my dear wife to the hardships of a miner's life. But I 
must be .^ningr; I just stepped in while passing, to acquaint you 
v/ith what has occured. 

Redington. If you have really determined on ^oing to the 
g-old fields, I know of a party of gentlemen that intend start- 
ing in a day or two for California ; they will form part of a com- 
pany that are to assemble in St. Louis, preparatory to crossing 
the plains. On account of the Indians, it will be much safer to 
go witli a large party ; so if you can make your arrangements 
in time, and call here this evening, I will introduce you to some 
of those gentlemen. 

Frank. You are very kind ; I will call ; good day. {Exit ) 

Redington. Now for weeping and wailing ; beauty in tears — 
ha! ha! ha! Ah, Ida Sumner! I shall cause you to shed still 
more bitter tears ere I am through. Wait till I have dis- 
patched to California your fond husband ; and then, and then 
my delicate little beauty — Ah ! ha ! ha ! ha ! — you will know 
that Harry Redington always runs down his game — ha! ha! 
ha! {Looking at Ids loatch.) I see it is pretty near time I was 
driving round to Mr. Wentworth's. The fascinating Miss (irace 
Wentworth is rather in the imperative mood, and don't like to 
be kept waiting; think I shall tame her spirits somewhat when 
I have done her the honor of making her Mrs. Redington — ha ! 
ha ! ha ! At present 'tis her hour of rule, mine is to come ; and 
then, fair Grace — well, never mind — you will know — ha ! ha ! 
ha ! {Sounds the hell upon the table ; enter servant) 

Redington. Tell John to harness the bays — no, no, the grays 
— and have them at the door in ten minutes ; be lively. {Exit 
Servant.) 

A most fortunate circumstance that Mr. Wentworth and family 
start so soon for Europe, to be gone six or eight months ; for 
intimate friend as Grace is of Ida Sumner, were she to remain 
here she would spoil my game, thwart me in my revenge ; but 
as Grace is going abroad, I can break oflf all intercourse between 
Ihem ; it will not do for them to correspond ; think I shall — 

E/der Servant. Carriage at the door, sir. 

Redington. If any one calls, say I will be back at five o'clock. 
Servant. Yes, sir. {Exit Redington and Servant.) 



Or, California in '49 and '50. 13 

Scene Third : Private Parlor of Boarding House. 
[Enter Ida Sumner.] 

Ida Sumner. Must it be ? Oh ! gracious Heaven m ust it be ? 
Oh ! my husband, must you, must you go ? Will you leave me ? 
Ah ! leave me and your dear little children ? Oh ! no, no ; it 
cannot be, it must be some horrid dream. Surely I cannot be 
awake ! Ah ! ah ! alas it is no dream ; dear Frank ib even now 
in his room preparing for his departure, and in a short time will 
come to bid me farewell. Oh ! oh ! when shall we meet again? 
Perhaps never more on earth ! Ah ! can gold ever repay the 
ansruish of this hour ? Surely my heart Avill break ; how can 1 
survive this separation ? Oh ! merciful Heaven comfort me ! Oh I 
oh ! [Seats herself in a chair near the table, and weeps wildly, 
the children come in and go to their mother's side.] 

Oracie. Say dear mamma, why do you cry ? 

Mrs. Sumner. {Weeping.) My dear little ones, your papa is 
going away. 

Enter Frank. Dear Ida ! my loved my cherished wife, weep 
not darling ; compose your feelings. This is but a brief separa- 
tion ; we shall soon be re-united. Think of the comforts, the 
happiness, I go to provide you, dearest. 

Mrs. Sumner. (Rising and clasping Jier arms around his neck.) 
Oh ! oh ! Frank ! dear Frank ! don't, oh, don't leave me. I-I 
cannot, cannot let you go without me ; leave not the wife you 
love, leave not our little ones — remember, dearest, we may 
never — never meet again. Oh ! for Heaven's sake, let me go 
with you, my loved husband, oh ! oh ! 

Frank. How can I, dearest Ida, how can I take you with me? 
How take you to the miner's rude cabin, how subject you, my 
loved wife, to the long tedious journey across the plains; the 
miner's poor fare, and all the hardships of a pioneer life? Im- 
possible, dear Ida ; I love you too well to grant your request ; you 
know not what you ask, my darling. 

Ida. I do, I do, dear Frank ; the deprivations, the hardships 
of which you speak I shall not feel, if but shared with you. So 
take me. Oh ! take us with you, dearest. How — how can you 
leave me? How leave your little ones? Oh! oh! my hus- 
band ! ( Weeps wildly.) 

Grade. Say, dear papa, why do you go away? Don't you 
love any more dear mamma ? Don't you love Gracie, and little 
Agnes ? 

Ida. Oh ! oh ! hear them, dear Frank ! Can you be deaf to 
their artless appeal ? Oh ! listen to them, leave them not, but 



14 The Devoted AVife; 

take UB with you. You will, dear Frank ? surely you will— say, 
speak, dear husband ! 

Frank. ' Oh ! my Grod, this is hard to bear ! Yes, surely this 
surpasses the bitterness of death. Let us not, dearest wife, pro- 
long this hour of parting, so fraught with anguish for us both. 
Farewell, dear Ida — loved wife — 

Ida. I cannot, I cannot say good-bye. ( Weeps Utterly) 

[Enter Grace Wentworth.] 

Ida. . Oh, Grace! Oh! Oh! don't let him leave me! Oh, 
merciful Heaven ! Oh ! Oh ! {Faints in the arms of her friend.) 

Grace. Oh ! dear, dear Ida ! Oh, Frank, since go you must, 
go now ; don't let her see you when she revives. 

Frank Yes, yes; but one more embrace, one more kiss. 
Farewell loved Ida, though you hear me not, God bless and 
keep you. 

[Tableau : Ida unconscious, clasped in her husband's arms ; 
one of the children holding on to the dress of the mother, the 
other clasping the father's knee ; Grace standing tearfully by.] 

Curtain Falls. 



ACT SECOND. 

California. Place: Mines. 

[Scene : Interior of miner's cabin. Furniture pine table, 
wooden stools, etc. Candles lighted. Present : five miners, one 
of them engaged in removing remains of repast, (consisting of 
pan-cakes, bacon, potatoes) and washing up the dishes, another 
is patching a pair of pants ; one seated smoking pipe ; two of 
them in front conversing.] 

Charles Raymond. Now, Frank, try and compose yourself. 
If you continue to harbor these evil forebodings, you will never 
regain your health, but may — 

Frank Sumner. Ah! Charley, it is easy to give advice, but 
how can I compose my mind, when every letter I have received 
from my loved wife since I left home, nine months ago, informs 



Or, Caltfornta in '49 and '50. 15 

me she receives no letters in reply to tliose slie writes ; and the 
letter I received a week ago, says she is in great distress, even 
reduced to the verge of starvation — that herself and dear little 
ones are lacking both food and necessary raiment. Good God! 
it will drive me mad, Charles ! And-and I so weak from sick- 
ness as to be unable to travel. What shall I do ? Ah ! what 
shall I do my friend ? 

Charles, But you can never hope to regain your strength, 
while you continue to give way as you do, to such despairing 
thoughts. So, Frank, do — 

Frank. How can I but despair ? when I send to my wife 
letter after letter containing remittances that she never receives? 
Is it not enough to drive reason from her throne ? Is it not 
not enough to — 

Charles. But Frank, our friend Hamilton must by this time 
have arrived at Washington City, and the letter you sent by him 
must now be in Mrs. Sumner's possession, and the large remit- 
tance it contained will not only relieve her necessities, but pro- 
vide her with every cjmfort. So banish from your mind all un- 
easiness ; all will come out right, my friend. 

Frank. Thank you, Charles ; what you say is indeed very 
comforting — yes, you have indeed reassured me. I will now en- 
deavor to entertain more hopeful views. 

Charles. That is right, Frank ; if you will but banish from 
your mind all anxiety, you will recover, much sooner, your health 
and strength. 

Harry Hogan Whart in the world is you two fellers palaver- 
ing about thar; spose Frank is talking about thart ar pooty little 
wife of his'n, whose picter he spends harf his time looking art. 
Wal, I don't blame him, no how ; if I hard such a pooty little 
wooman back in the States, spect I should do the same. {Draws 
a stool forward from the wall, seats himself, and measures his 
length upon the floor.) 

Miners. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Save the pieces Harry; ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Bill Johnson. Hallo ! Wharts the matter thar, Harry ? Haint 
you larned to set on a stool yet ? ha ! ha ! ha ! 

arry. (Rising.) It's that dratted three-legged stool ; this 
makes three times it has sent me sprawling, reckon I'le jist put 
in thart ar leg right away, dorg my cats if I don't. Whar's the 
saw ? Oh ! thar it ar. (Looks around for something of which to 
make a leg for stool, observes a broom in the corner, saws a piece 
off the handle.) 

Bill. Wal now, Is'e glard them ar dishes is all washed. 

Jake. And I'm right glard that this hare patch is all fixed; I 
don't go a cent on sewing; wouldent be one of them ar dress- 
making gals for a heap of money. 



16 The Devoted Wife; 

[Enter Dan.] 

Dan. Wal Jake, dont think you'd make your pile at sewing, 
judg-ing by looks of thart ar patch, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Jake. Now I should like to know wharts the matter with 
thart ar patch ? 

Dan. Why dont you see, you harve sewed the patch on the 
wrong side ; it orter been on the inside stead of outside, and 
jast look art them ar stitches, half an inch at least ; see how you 
have puckered it. ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Jake. Now Dan you jist dry up, jast as though it makes any 
odds which side a patch is sewed on — you don't know nothing 
bout it 

Dan. Now, just look thar at Harry; hang me if he haint 
took and sawed off that broom-handle to make a leg for that ar 
stool; now, how is we to sweep up the cabin? just tell me that. 

Harry. Wal, carnt you tie on a piece ? tell me thart ; so 
you jist shut up. 

[Enter Jim Russel.] 

Bill. Wal, now, if hare haint Jim Russel got back. Wal, 
Jim, how is you? what's the news from below? 

Jim. W^al, I haint got no news; but I tell you, boys, I've got 
something hare 'twill do your eyes good to look at. 

Charles. Well, Jim, just unfold your treasure, and let us see 
what it is. 

Jim. Wal, I will let you see ; but now boys jist be keer- 
ful, and don't tech it, you mout sile it ; p'raps your hands ain't 
jist as clain as they mout be. 

Harry. You dry up Jim ; recond our hands is jist as clain 
as your'n, p'raps a heap site clainer. 

Jim. Wal, thart may all be, and northen left to brag of, 
nuther ; but you see I'me keerful. 

[Commences unwrapping his treasure ; takes oflF carefully 
half-a-dozen wrappings of paper one after another, and lays 
them aside ; the miners gathering around the table in great ex- 
pectation.] 

Dan. Wal, are you ever goin to get through takin off 
them ar wrappins? I should loik to know? 

Jim. Now, you jist hold your bosses, and don't go hurrying 
a feller. {Having taken off the last wrapper, stancUiig proudly 
erect, and casting around exultant glances, he liolds up by the 
string to the admiring ga,ze of his brother miners, a lady's dimin- 
utive gaiter.) Thar now, boys, what do you think of thart thar ? 



Or, Califoenia in '49 and '60. 17 



^ill. Wliy, whar in thunderation did you git thart ? Jist 
let's have a closer look, worn't you ? 

Jim. Now, you jist stand whar you is ; don't go for to be 
tecliing it, but jist look. Say, boys, whart do you think of 
thart ? 

Harry. Carn't you tell a feller how you got it ? say ? 

Jim. I found it, thart's how I got it ; found it about ten 
miles from the mouth of the canon, laying right 'iongside of 
whart I'se got in this here tother bundle ; but whart do you 
think of thart are, boys ? 

Harry. Wal, I will tell you whart I ihink ; haar's a fifty- 
dollar slug you can have for it, Whart say you, Jim ? 

Jim. It carn't be did. 

Biil. Wal, hear's two slugs ; whart do you say to thart ? 

Jim. It carn't, be did. 

Dan. And hear's three slugs Jim ; are it a bargain ? 

Jim. It carn't be did — I tell you, boys, it carn't be did. You 
see, I've get a pooty gal waiting for me, way back in the 
States, and she wears jist sich a thing as thart ar ; so its no use 
talking, boys. I tell you it carn't be did ; no money can buy 
thart ar; so no use talking, boys. [Wraps up carefully, and 
puts away the gaiter.] 

Charles. Ha I ha 1 ha I think, Frank, you and I had better 
go in the shoe business — send on East for a large supply of 
ladies' gaiters, ha ! ha 1 ha ! 

Frank. Yes, Charles, if we could be assured that present 
prices would be maintained, ha ! ha ! ha ! Wonder what the 
ladies East would say if they knew $150 was offered, and 
refused, for a ladies' gaiter ? ha ! ha I ha ! 

Charles. Think it would pay better than gold mining, ha ! 
ha! ha I 

Jim. Now, I will jist show you something thart will make 
you stare ; but if any you boys can tell me whart it am, I will 
be mighty glard to hear ; so, boys, jist look, and tell me whart 
thart ar am {nnwraps, and holds up to their puzzled and aston- 
ished gaze, a ladies' bustle of huge dimensions). 

Harry. Guves it up, Jim. Whart you call it ? come, tell a 
feller ; and whart are it for? 

Jim. Wal, boys, you've got me thar sure — carn't guess ; 
carn't any of you boys tell ? 

Dan. No, not I, unless 'tis some new-fangled sort of life- 
presarvar. 

Jim. No, no, tain't thart — 'twouldn't float a drowned rat. 

Bill. Wal, whart are it, then ? 

Jim. Carn't say, less 'tis some new-fashioned saddle for the 
gals to ride on, but tliarn taint quite big enough for thart. 
Hallo ! Frank and Charley, whart is you two fellers snickering 



18 The Bevoted Wife 



at ? Wal, now, you have a heap sight more laming than we 
fellers ; carn't you tell us whart this ar thing am ? 

Frank. Well, yes, boys ; that is something the ladies wear, 
ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Ji7n. Whart ! something the gals wear ? 'Taint a bonnet, 
are it ? 

Charles. Ha ! ha ! ha ! certainly, that's a new-fashioned 
bonnet, the latest style, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Harry. A gals' bonnet ! wal, now, dorg my cats if thart 
don't get me. Here, boys, take ray hat, ha ! ha ! ha ! {Miners 
all laugh) Try it on, Jim ; let a feller see how it looks. 

Jim. Sartain, boys — here goes. Wal, boys, how do it look ? 
say, is I pooty ? 

Miners all. Yes, yes ; you bet, you bet ; ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Jim. Wal, I'se glad to hear on it ; but hold ; here, Bill, you 
put it on, and let me take a look. Wal, now, if thart's the 
kind of bonnets thart your fashionable gals wear, then no 
fashionable gal for me, says I, ha! ha! ha! {Miners laugh.) 
Wal, now, let me have it to put away ; shall be going down to 
Frisco, one of these days, and will take it along — praps I can 
sell it to one of them ar fashionable gals. [ Wraps up, and puts 
away the pai'cel.] 

Frank. Ha ! ha ! ha ! don't think that Bill will get quite so 
high a bid from the ladies of San Francisco for his fashionable 
bonnet as he had offered for that ladies' gaiter, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

ChaMes. I think not, ha ! ha ! ha ! would like to be within 
hearing when he offers that bonnet for sale to the ladies of San 
Francisco, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Frank. Ha! ha! ha! 

[Bill takes his violin, and commences playing. Dan Maliood 
and Harry Hogan seat themselves at the table, and commence 
a game of cards. Charles Raymond and Frank Sumner fill their 
pipes and smoke. 

Harry. Come, Dan, let's have a game. 
Dan. All right, I'm your man. 

[Enter two miners from adjoining cabin.] 

Dan. Hallo, Joe, how do ? How is you, Sam ? 
Sam. All right, boys. Come, Joe ; now for a jig. 
Joe. I'm agreeable Give us something lively, Bill. Here 
goes. 

[When the dance ends, miners loudly applaud.] 



Or, California in '49 and '50. 19 

Bill. Wal, now, boys, let's harve a song. 

8am. All riglit, Bill ; drive ahead. 

Jim. Whart shall we sing ? 

GKarles. Let us have, boys, " The California Miners." 

Joe. Well, now, altogether. 

[All join in song, with exception of Frank.] 

Cal-i-for-ni-a, Cal-i-for-ni a, 

Where the miners, young and old, 

In gulches and mountain canons, 
Are searching for precious gold. 

But dearer far than all the gold, 

The gals we left behind us. 
But dearer far than all the gold. 

The gals we left behind us. 

From early morn, throughout the day, 

We miners, bold and robust. 
Are searching all the gulches through, 

In seeking for the gold dust. 

But dearer far than all the gold, 
The gals we left behind us, etc. 

Now that we have a gaiter found — 

Wal, boys, 'tis no use talking — 
We'll dream that with our pooty gals 

We've all been out a-walking. 

For dearer far than all the gold. 
The gals we left behind us, etc. 

And how we do the nuggets scorn, 

While viewing this new treasure. 
And thinking of the pooty foot 

Of which we have the measure. 

For dearer far than all the gold. 
The gals we left behind us, etc. 

Sam. Whoop ! whoop ! hurrah ! boys, for the gals we left 
beliind us. 

Miners all. Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 

Sam. Ah, boys, if I only had my little Maggie here ! 



20 The Devoted Wife; • 

Joe. And if my pooty little Sally was only here ! Wait till 
I gets my pile, and if I don't show you boys jist the pootiest 
gal you ever seed —yes sirree. 

Bill. Wal, now, I reckon I knows one little gal that would 
take the shine off your Maggie, and your Sally ; thart's so, 
boys, no use talking. 

Sam. Reckon, Jim, you're mighty mistaken thar. 

Joe. And so does I; but you just wait and see, Jim; yes 
sirree. 

[Enter Doctor Erskine.] 

Doctor. How do you do, boys ? 

Miners. Bully ! bully ! how's yourself. Doctor ? 

Doctor. All right, boys. Well, Frank, how do you feel this 
evening ? you are looking better. 

Frank. Yes, Doctor, I am improving. 

Charles. Take a seat. Doctor. 

Doctor. Thank you ; can't stay ; have a case five miles up 
the canon ; j ust dropped in ; must be going, 

Frank. Who is your patient, Doctor ? 

Doctor. Mountain Tom. 

Harry. Whart's thart, Doctor? Mountain Tom sick ? Never 
knowed sich a thing of Tom afore — dorg my cats if I did ! 

Doctor. Well, no, Harry, not exactly sick, but hurt — been 
clawed by £r bear. 

Harry. Ah ! thart sounds more reasonable ; never knowed 
old Grizzly to be sick, and I've knowed him many a year. 

Bill. Is he much hurt. Doctor ? 

Doctor. Can't say ; pretty badly clawed, I understand. It 
seems his rifle missed fire ; so, with his knife, he had a rough- 
and-tumble fight with the bear. 

Harry. And come out ahead, I bet. Will bet my pile on old 
Grizzly in a bar fight every day. 

Doctor. Yes, he killed the bear ; and then, badly as he was 
hurt, took off and brought in the skin, for fear, as he said, 
'twould spoil if he left it, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Harry. Ha ! ha ! ha ! {Miners all laugh) thart's old Grizzly 
all over ; kotch him leaving a bar-skin to spile, long as he can 
crawl, ha ! ha ! ha ! Dorg my cats, boys, but he's a trump ! 
ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Doctor. Well, boys, I must be going — but, there, if I didn't 
come near forgetting that letter I stopped on purpose to 
deliver. I was over to the tavern when the mail came in, and 
heard your name called, Frank. As I was coming this way, I 
brought it along. {Presents the letter.) 

Frank. Thank you, Doctor. Ah ! 'tis from my wife. {Opens 
and reads the letter.) 



Or, California m '49 and '50. 21 

Doctor. Well, good night all. 

Miners all. Good night ; good night, Doctor. 

Harry, Hold on, Doctor ; jist you drop in on your way back, 
and let us know consarning Tom. Old Grizzly and I'se old 
friends — have fit the Indians, and lifted many a scalp together 
— so, if he ar much hurt, must go and see him arly in the 
morning. 

Doctor. Yes. Harry, will call on my way back. 

Frank. My God ! my God ! 

[Rises from his seat, and staggers blindly around.] 

Miners all (rising). What's up ? what's the trouble ? 

Doctor. Bad news, Frank ? 

Charley. What is it, my friend ? 

Frank (wildly). My wife — my children — are starving — are 
perishing of hunger ! Oh, God ! oh, my God ! 

Doctor. Perhaps not so bad as that, Frank ; but you will 
bring on a relapse if you — 

Frank. Gracious Heaven ! My dear Ida, my loved wife, and 
little ones, dying of starvation ! I must — will — go to them ! God 
grant I may not be too late ! Ah, why did I leave you, darling ? 
why did I not listen to your prayers, to remain or bring you 
with me? Ah, how true, dear one, was your presentiment of 
coming woe ! I will go now. Farewell, friends. Where can I 
obtain a horse ? speak ! tell me ! 

Doctor. You cannot go — you are too weak to travel. 

Charles. Things may not be so bad. Wait till you regain 
your strength. Recollect that Hamilton — 

Frank. Speak of waiting when my loved ones are dying of 
hunger? Go I will, and at once, though I perish on the way! 
Don't hold me, Charley ! don't detain me, for Heaven's sake ! 
let me go, or I shall go mad ! unhand me, I say ! I will, will go ! 

[Struggles with his friends, Charles, the Doctor, and miners, 
who prevent his departure. Falls exhausted into the arms of 
Charles ] 

Doctor. There — just as I expected. Carry him to his room, 
and lay him on his bed ; he will not leave it again for months, 
if ever. 

Jake. Poor Frank ! to think of thart pooty little wife of his'n 
dying, for a little of the gold thart we tread under feet. 

Harry. Dorg my cats ! but it makes me feel like a womq,n, 
boys. 

Jim. It's a mighty hard case, boys ; no use talking. 



22 The Devoted Wife; 

Bill. To think of thart pooty little woman back in the 
States ! Ah, if it would help him, he'd be welcome to half my 
pile. 

Miners. And mine. And mine. And mine, 

[Frank being supported by Charles and the Doctor. Miners 
showing great sympathy.] 

Frank (faintly). My wife ! my children ! 

Curtain Falls. 



ACT THIRD. 

Place: Wasldngton City, D. C. 

[Scene : Small, plainly-furnislied room in common lodging- 
house. Present : Mrs. Sumner and children, very poorly 
dressed.] 

Ida. Oh! oh! how faint I feel! Oh! how hard to bear 
these gnawing pains of hunger ! Ah, dear Frank, dear hus- 
band, could you but view now your loved Ida, behold your 
cherished ones ; know what from very shame I have not 
written — that I have been expelled with insults from house after 
house ! Oh, merciful Heaven ! what have I done ? what have I 
done to deserve such treatment ? No friends to console me in 
my sorrow — none to appeal to in my great distress ! Oh ! oh ! 
Grace, dear Grace, can it be that you too have listened to the 
voice of detraction ? given credit to the vile falsehoods ? Oh, 
no, no, no, Grace ; and yet, why have I not heard from you ? 
why have you not written ? Oh ! oh ! what can I think ? Ah, 
dear husband, are these the comforts, the luxurious surround- 
ings, your going to California were to procure me ? but I will 
not reproach you, dearest, for well I know you had only my 
happiness in view. Oh ! oh ! I fear you are dead ! were you 
living, surely I would have received some letters — some reply 
to the many I have written. Ah, yes, dear husband ; but 'twill 
not be long ere we meet again — famine has nigh done its work. 
Ah, little did I dream I should ever crave bread, and obtain it 



Ok, California in '49 and '50. 23 

not. Two days have passed since a morsel has passed my lips ; 
I cannot touch the few remaining crusts I have put aside for my 
little darlings, so soon to feel as I, now, the cruel pangs of 
hunger. How ! how — hear their cries for bread, and have none 
to give. Oh, Heavenly Father ! spare, oh ! spare me this ! 
{Wee2)S.) 

Oracle. Mamma, please give me some bread ? I am so 
hungry, mamma. 

Agnes. I'se hungry, mamma ; give me some bread, mamma ? 

Ida. Yes, darlings. 

[Gives to each a small piece of dry bread.] 

Oracle. Oh, mamma, this is not good bread — 'tis too dry — so 
hard, 

Agnes. This no good bread, mamma ; give me some good 
bread. 

Ida. 'Tis all that poor mamma has to give, darlings ; take, 
and try to eat, loves. Oh, God ! oh, God ! Jittle do they know 
how I hunger for the crusts of which they complain, dear little 
ones. Oh, Lord ! oh, Lord ! have pity — have mercy on us ! oh ! 
send us assistance ere 'tis too late ! Ah ! ah ! some one comes 
— perhaps my prayer is heard. 

[Enter Redington.] 

Ida. Ah, Mr. Redington, my husband's friend, have you 
come to save us ? 

Redington. Yes, fair Ida, if you accept my terms. 

Ida. What mean you, sir? Do you, Mr. Redington, propose 
terms to the starving, to the dying? and — and what means your 
form of address ? how presume, sir, to call me Ida ? 

Redington. Charming Ida, you are now in my power. 

Ida. How dare you, s:ir, address me thus? Leave me! your 
very looks are insulting. 

Redington. Insulting, ^ja! ha! ha! What will you then 
term the sweet kisses I shall now proceed to ravish from those 
rosebud lips? 

Ida (retreating). Wretch ! villain ! approach me not ! 

Redington. Resistance is in vain, my sweet charmer ; so 
yield with grace. 

Ida (showing a stiletto). You are mistaken, cowardly villain ; 
approach me, and you die. 

Redington (recoiling). A dagger ! what ! armed ? 

Ida. Leave me, villain ! go ! go ! 

Redington. Well, sweet Ida, expect I shall have to forego for 
the present those blissful kisses ; but know that ere three days 



24 The Devoted Wife; 

have elapsed, I shall have you in the cottap^e I am having 
arranged for your accommodation — the cage I have provided for 
my pretty bird. Those who will bear you there, where my 
fond arms await you, will little heed your dirk, ha ! ha! ha! 
Think of it — love in a cottage, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Ida. Oh ! oh ! basest of villains ! never ! oh ! never ! 

Redingion. Wait and see, my charmer ; and that you may 
in the meantime enjoy pleasant dreams, listen to what I have 
to say, fair Ida. Do you not recollect the time when Harry 
Redington, the millionaire, knelt a suitor at the feet of Ida 
Horton, the belle, the beauty, the heiress, and knelt in vain ? 
Thinking if you were somewhat humbled it might assist his 
suit, he led your father, the wealthy Mr. Horton, into wild 
speculations, that swept away his fortune. Then the adoring 
lover showed his disinterestedness by again begging your 
acceptance of his hand and fortune. You scorned the offer, and 
turning from him, bestowed your fair hand on a beggarly Gov- 
ernment clerk — a nobody — Frank Sum — 

Ida. Silence, basest of villains 1 take not upon your vile lips 
the name of my noble husband ! 

Redington. Do not interrupt me, beauteous Ida ; spare me 
further compliments, please^ till I am through. 'Twas then 
that I, Harry Redington, swore revenge. How well I have 
kept that oath, you, Ida Sumner, now shall know. Yes, fair 
Ida, it was I that helped fan the gold lever raging in your 
husband's breast ; I that had him discharged from his clerk- 
ship, that succeeded in starting him for California, that by 
depriving of her lawful protector, I might have in my power 
his beautiful, charming wife. 

Ida. Monster ! 

Redington. Wait, sweetest, till you have heard all. Know 
then when, to eke out your scanty means of subsistence, you 
commenced giving lessons in music, 'twas I, yes, I, your rejected 
suitor, Harry Redington, that, by setting afloat certain rumors, 
blasted your fair fame, and lost you your pupils. 

Ida. Oh ! oh ! are you a man ? are you human ? or are you 
not in truth a fiend — a demon ? 

Redington. Don't become excited, fair Ida, ha ! ha ! ha ! but 
listen to me. Know then it was anonymous letters that have 
caused you to be expelled from boarding and lodging houses as 
not a fit inmate, till I find you in these mean lodgings, and 
that— 

Ida. Oh I oh ! infamous, heartless wretch ! and do you come 
here to boast of your villainies ? to gloat over the misery you 
have caused? to exult at your triumph over a poor, weak, 
defenceless woman, that you have driven to starvation ? to — 



Or, California in ^49 and '50. 25 

Redington. Ha ! ha ! lia ! you are perfectly correct, sweet 
and beautiful Ida; you have truly named the purpose of my 
visit. Ah, yes, revenge is sweet ; it almost repays the suffer- 
ings you caused me when I knelt. and implored in vain your 
pity, your mercy, as you shall mine in time not distant, my 
charmer, ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, I have but one more pleasant 
piece of information to impart. Know, Ida Sumner, that a 
woman in my employ personated you, and took from the office 
all letters directed to you, and so prevented you from receiving 
the means of support that would have defeated my plans ? I 
have here a letter of your husband's that was taken from the 
office, containing quite a sum. 

Ida. Oh ! oh ! then my husband lives ! Oh ! thank God I 
thank God ! 

Redington (aside). Ah ! what the devil — guess 'twould have 
been as well to have kept that last piece of information. — 
Why don't you weep, sweet Ida? I thought to regale myself 
•with the sight of beauty in tears. Hope you are not going to 
disappoint me after all I have done for, you. Say! why don't 
you weep, and wring those lily white hands in wild despair? 
ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Ida. My husband lives ! 

Redington. Well, don't console yourself quite so much with 
that thought ; what though he lives when you will soon be 
enfolded in these fond arms? ha! ha ! ha! 

Ida. Never ! never ! monster ! villain ! wretch ! sooner 
would I be encircled by the bony arms of Death, than suffer for 
one moment your foul, abhorred embrace ! 

Redington Ha! ha! ha! not very complimentary, cer- 
tainly; but just please to bear in mind, sweet Ida, that prefer- 
erence has nothing to do with the question, and that to my 
arms, and that soon, you will come, however unwillingly. I 
have sworn it; and you can judge by the past whether I am 
likely to keep that oath. You cannot escape my toils ; you are 
entirely in my power ; so think not to escape me — you have 
none to protect — 

Ida. 'Tis false ! the God in whom I trust will protect — will 
deliver me from your power. Of husband, friends, and com- 
forts, you have bereft me ; honor and virtue alone are left ; of 
these, vile wretch, you shall never, never rob me. Heaven will 
protect ; my God will — 

Redington. Ha ! ha ! ha I talk not to me of your God ; I 
know him not ; gold alone is God, is Almighty. The power of 
this god has placed you where you are, and will soon place you 
in my cottage. 



26 The Devoted Wife 



Ida. Oh ! oh ! blasphemous wretch ! I wonder Heaven^a 
lightnings do not strike you dead ! Deliver me of your vile, 
abhorred presence ! Go ! go ! monster ! demon ! leave me ! 

Redington. Ha ! ha ! ha ! well, for the present, I will take 
my departure, but shall dream of the beauteous one so soon to 
share my cottage, ha ! ha ! ha ! So farewell, dearest. Au 
revoir. {Exit) 

[At the departure of Redington, Ida throws herself upon a 
chair and weeps, wildly.] 

Ida. Oh ! can it be he speaks the truth ? am I indeed in his 
power ? Ah ! is there no escape ? is death my sole refuge ? 
Oh, God, the protector of the weak, the friendless, come to my 
assistance ; have pity on me ; succor me and these little ones 
{weeps). {Rises) And to think dear Frank supposed him his best 
friend ! Ah, treacherous, false-hearted, depraved villain ! Oh ! 
oh ! but my dear husband is alive. Shall I live to see him ? am 
I not starving ? will not myself and darlings be in our graves 
ere his return ? 

[Enter Landlady.] 

Mrs. Hopkins. Mrs. Sumner — if that is your name — the week 
you've paid for in advance is up at sundown. Yoa've jist two 
hours to git other lodgings. 

Ida. Oh 1 oh ! what mean you ? why do you thus address 
me? 

Mrs. Hopkins. It means, madam, or miss — whichever you 
are — that I've a letter, signed a friend ov the house, tellin' me 
consarnin' your true karacter. Now, let me tell you that I 
keeps a 'spectable house, and don't let no lodgins to sich like as 
you. So, see you git out by sundown, or you'll be put out the 
house. Just to think you had the impe'rriance to come here, 
passing yourself off as a married woman ! 

Ida. Oh ! oh ! I am not — indeed I am not — what you name ! 
Oh ! oh ! do not turn us in the street to die ! You are a woman 
— are a mother — so have pity on us ! Oh ! oh ! at your feet I 
implore pity, mercy, for these my children. Ah, think of your 
own loved children ! think of — 

Mrs. Hopkins. My children ! Dare you name my children 
in the same breath with such brats as yours ? 

Ida. Oh ! oh ! have you no pity, no mercy ? 

Mrs. Hopkins. Why don't you go to the poor-house ? shure 
that's the proper place for sich like as you. Do you think I 
keeps a house for beggars, and wus? no, indeed! I have no 
time to waste on you ; so jist see that you are out of — 



Or, California in '49 and '60. 27 

Ida (rises). Oh ! oh ! have you no heart — no feeling ? {Exit 
Mrs. Hopkins.) Ah, poor me ! is this the end — turned with my 
little ones in the street to die ? Oh, Heaven ! pity me — have 
mercy ! Oh ! ah ! what is this feeling — this faintness ? is it 
death? Oh, God! my children! oh, Frank! husband! Oh! 
oh! ah! 

[Swoons, and lies prostrate upon the floor. Children go to 
her.] 

Grade. Oh ! oh ! mamma is sick ! Oh ! speak to Gracie, 
mamma ! Oh ! oh ! dear mamma ! ( Weeps.) 
Mamma ! mamma ! dear mamma ! 

[Enter George and Grace Wentworth.J 

Grace. Oh, gracious Heaven ! Ida ! Ida ! dear Ida ! are we 
too late ? Oh ! are you dead, my friend ? Oh ! oh ! — 

[Kneels by her side ; takes her hands ; raises her head.] 

George. Is she alive, sister ? Great Heaven ! that we should 
have found her thus. Can it be she is dead? 

Grace. Oh, George, she lives, she breathes. Thank Heaven ! 
thank Heaven ! Ah, yes, she revives ; quick ! raise her, brother. 
{Is raised to her feet hy George.) Oh, Ida, dear Ida, 'tis me, 'tis 
Grace ! Speak, sweet love ; do you not know me, dearest ? 

Ida. Oh, Grace, Grace, have you come ? has Heaven sent you 
to oar assistance? Oh, dear, dear, Grace ! 

[She stands, leaning upon the bosom of her friend, enclosed 
by her arms.] 

Grace. Oh, Ida, dearest Ida, how is it we find you in this 
distressed condition ? How — 

Ida. Oh, Grace, I cannot tell you now ; I am so weak, so 
faint ; some other time, Grace ; I am famishing ; oh ! oh ! I am 
so hungry, Grace. ( Weeps) 

Grace. Oh, my God ! hear her, George ; she is starving ; and 
look at little Gracie and little Agnes trying to eat those hard 
crusts of bread. Oh, George, quick, quick ; get her to the 
carriage, to the house ; support her, George ; I will take charge 
of the dear little ones. 

George. Let me place my arm around you, Mrs. Sumner, to 
support your steps ; you will soon be where you will receive 
nourishment and care ; lean your weight on me, please. 



28 The Devoted Wife; 

Ida. Oh, thank you, bless you, my friends ! 
Grace. Come, my poor little darlings. 

[Exit all.] 



Scene Second: Pleasure grounds of Mr. Wentworth ; trees, 
shrvJbs, arhors. 

[Enter James Hamilton.] 

Hamilton. How familiar the scene — these groves, shrubs 
and bowers — these shaded walks, where I have wandered oft' 
with dear Grace — how dear, she never knew, for I was poor — 
yes, poor and proud, and could not confess my love to the fair 
heiress. Now, Fortune has smiled upon me ; the gold-fields of 
California have enriched me. I started on my way home laden 
not only with riches, but bright hopes— hopes, ah, where are 
they now ? gone — all gone. The wealth so eagerly sought for, 
toiled for, ah, how little valued now ; for she, the idol of my 
heart, for whom it was achieved, is lost to me forever, and 
dreams not the one she welcomed as friend, aspired to a nearer, 
dearer title ; and yet, when I left her, I thought, yes, felt, she 
was not indifferent to me, and had I declared to her the love 
that brimmed my heart, believe she would not have scorned the 
offering. But 'tis passed ; I must not dwell upon it, but en- 
deavor to conceal from all my heart's deep affection. Oh, 
Grace, Grace, 'tis hard to think it might have been. Ah ! 
hither comes her respected mother, and my friend. 

[Enter Mrs. Wentworth.] 

Mrs. Wentworth. Ah, Mr. Hamilton — 

Hamilton. Good morning, Mrs. Wentworth. I was informed 
at the house I would find you somewhere in these pleasant 
grounds. 

Mrs. Wentworth. Most happy to see you, Mr. Hamilton I 
am alone, as you see. Grace and George left two hours ago, to 
renew their search for our dear friend, Mrs. Sumner. 

Hamilton. Have you no news of Mrs. Sumner ? 

Mrs. Wentworth. None, whatever. Grace and George were 
driving all over the city, yesterday, inquiring, but in vain. 
To-day they will search more in the suburbs, thinking necessity 
may have driven her to some obscure boarding-house. Dear 
child I we shall know no peace till we discover her. 



Or, California in '49 and '50. 29 

Mr. Hamilton. Ali ! sad news this for my friend Frank ; but 
she must be discovered. Good morning, Mrs. Went worth. 

Mrs. Wentworth. What is your hurry, Mr. Hamilton ? 

Hamilton. I, too, Mrs. Wentworth, am engaged in this 
search for Mrs. Sumner ; so please excuse me. Good morning. 

Mrs. Wentioorth. Good morning. Call again. {Exit Hainilton.) 

[Enter Mr. Wentworth.] 

Mr. Wentworth. Who, dear wife, was the gentleman that 
just left you? 

Mrs. Wentworth. Our friend, Hamilton. 

Mr. Wentworth. Ah, indeed ; I should like to have seen him. 
Has he heard anything of Mrs. Sumner? 

Mrs. WentiDorth Nothing ; he is engaged in searching for — 

[Enter Sarah.l 

Sarah. Oh, missus, deys come ; yas, missus, deys come, sar- 
tin, shure. Miss Grace and Massa George is got back, and 
Missus Sumner and de leetle chiluns wid 'em;" yas, missus, 
sartin, shure. 

Mrs. Wentioorth. Oh, Sarah, is it so ? Oh, thank Heaven ! 
Where are they, Sarah? 

Sarah. I seed 'em gettin' out de carriage, missus, and den I 
run to tell you. Deys in de house now, sartin, shure. 

Mrs. WentiDorth. Oh, the dear, dear child. 

Mr. Wentioorth. Let us hasten to meet and welcome them. 

[Exit Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth and servant,] 



Scene Third: A grove, in pleasure grounds of Henry 
Redington. 

[Enter Redington.] 

Redington. The hour of my final triumph is close at hand ; 
the cherished vengeance of years will soon be accomplished ; 
yes, I shall soon have in my power the once haughty Ida 
Horton. Ah, to think of her as she was, the belle and heiress, 
and as I beheld her within the hour, and know it was my ven- 
geance that placed her in her present position, ha ! ha ! ha ! So 
it appears that you carry a dagger, my pretty one. Well, it 



30 The Devoted Wife; 

will not be for long. When I have placed you in my secluded 
cottage, I shall see that your pretty hand holds no more 
daggers, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

[Enter Ike Tompkins, a ruffian, tool of Redington.] 

Ike Tompkins. Wal, squire, what's wanted? came just as 
soon as I got your message. 

Redington. Tell me, sirrah, where were you within the hour ? 

Ike. Wal, squire, I was at my post — was watching that ar 
house. 

Redington. None of your lies. 

Ike. I isn't lying, squire ; I was opposite the house ; I seed 
you when you went in. 

Redington. Ah, indeed ; but tell me, sirrah, where were you 
when I came out ? now, none of your lies. I looked for you, 
and you were nowhere in the vicinity — a pretty watch you are 
keeping. 

Ike. Wal, squire, I seed you go in the house, so thought 
'twas all right, so just stepped round the corner to take a drink. 
Didn't think you'd be in a hurry to leave that pretty woman, 
and so — 

Redington. Silence, you scamp ! how dare you to comment 
on my doings, or relate to me your suppositions ? keep your 
opinions to yourself. 

Ike. Wal, squire, didn't mean no offence. 

Redington. Well, hasten b ck to your post, and see that you 
swallow no more liquor to-day — you are half drunk now. Be 
watchful ; that lady will leave the house before, sundown, so 
keep a close watch ; see that you are able to report her where- 
abouts on the morrow. I shall need your services in this 
matter but a few days longer ; be vigilant, and I will make your 
reward $300, in place of the $200 I promised. 

Ike. Thank you, squire ; don't you fear ; shall keep a close 
watch ; no danger she 'scaping me ; hain't I tracked her close 
every time ? 

Redington. Yes, yes, you have done well so far ; but go, 
now ; she may leave the house while you are here talking. So 
away — begone. 

Ike. She won't give me the slip ; no fear ; good day, squire. 
{Exit)^ 

Redington. *A useful scamp — a convenient tool. So Mr. 
Wentworth and family have returned from Europe — arrived 
three days ago, during my visit to Baltimore. Must call 
to-day, or Grace will think I am neglecting her ; she will be 
delighted to see me. She will be sure to inquire after her 
friend, Ida. Shall tell her that Mrs. Sumner has gone to join 



Or, California in '49 and '50. 3l 

her husband in California, ha ! ha ! ha ! but I must get Ida out 
of the city, to my cottage, as soon as possible. If Grace should 
discover her, the devil would be to pay. Think I — 

[Enter Servant^ Sir, a lady at the house wishes to know if 
you can spare her a few moments. 

Eedington. A lady? certainly. Do you know who she is? 

Servant. No, sir. 

Eedington. What does she look like— young or old, ugly or 
pretty ? 

Servant. Can't say, sir; appears young; has her veil down, 
sir. 

Redington. I will be at the house presently. ^ Exit servant.] 
Some fair petitioner, I presume — another subscription list — fans 
for the Esquimaux, or woolen socks and overcoats for tlie Hot- 
tentots, ha ! ha ! ha ! Another hundred out of my pocket, I 
expect ; well, can't help it ; never refuse the ladies, especially 
the pretty ones, ha ! ha ! ha ! Shall see published the good 
deed of Henry Redington, Esq., millionaire, the great philan- 
thropist, the benefactor of mankind, ha! ha! ha! Well, I go 
in for charities that pay, ha ! ha ! ha ! [Exit.] 



Scene Fourth : Draicing-room, residence of Mr. Wentworth. 
[Enter Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth.] 

Mrs. Wentworth. Oh, Fred, it makes my heart ache to look at 
that dear child. Why, she and her little ones were nearly 
starved. Grace ^ays she discovered her in a most miserable 
lodging-house, lying prostrate and senseless. 

Mr. Wentworth. To think the daughter of my late and es- 
teemed friend, Horton, should ever be in such straits. Do you 
know how it happened she was reduced to such distress? 

Mrs.Wentworth. No; Grace has not informed me. Oh, oh, 
how fortunate the arrival of Mr. Hamilton, from California, 
with that letter for dear Ida. You know Grace inquired for her 
friend the first day of our return from abroad, and could obtain 
no information of her, but was told it was rumored she had 
gone to join her husband in California. Had it not l^een for 
Mr. Hamilton's opportune arrival, we should not have known 
to the contrary. 

Mr. Wentworth. To think that Mr. Sumner is now wealthy 
(his share in the mine, as Mr. Hamilton tells me, is worth at 
least two hundred thousand dollars), and his lovely wife here 
suffering the extremes of poverty. Hamilton told me that her 
husband has sent letter after letter, containing remittances, 



32 The Devoted Wife; 

which, it appears, she has never received. Strange — very 
strange ! 

Mrs. Wentioorth. Yes, indeed ; perfectly unaccountable. 

Mr. Wentworth. Where is Mrs. Sumner? has she finished 
her repast ? I would like to hear some explanation from her . 

Mrs. Wentworth. Grace has taken her to her room, to change 
her dress ; the dear child has no clothes, only the poor dress 
she had on at her arrival ; so Grace will share her wardrobe 
with her until she can have dresses made. Oh, here she comes. 

[Enter Grace, with Ida.] 

Orace. Oh, mother ! what do you think ? dear Ida says she 
is going to start immediately for California, and she hardly able 
to stand on her feet for weakness. 

Mrs. Wentworth. Why, Ida, dear child, you cannot travel for 
the present. Wait till you recover some strength ; we cannot 
part with you so soon ; so do not think of — 

Ida. Thank you, dear friend; but I must go at once — my 
husband is sick. 

Mr. Wentworth. And you, Mrs. Sumner, are indisposed. If 
you attempt the journey in your present condition, you will not 
live to reach California. Wait till you have recovered your 
health. 

[Enter George Wentworth.] 

Ida. Oh, dear sir, I cannot wait ; I must go. When does 
the next steamer leave? can you tell me, George ? 

George. In one week, Mrs. Sumner ; but surely you will not 
start for California in your present condition ? 

Ida. Yes ; I must leave by the next steamer. Ah, that it 
but left to-morrow. 

Grace (places her arm around Ida). Oh, oh, Ida, dear ; must 
I lose you again, and so soon? 

Ida. Frank is sick ; so I must go to him, dear Grace. 

Mrs. Wentioorth. Indeed, dear child, you will not be fit to 
travel for a month ; but now tell me, dear Ida, how you came 
in such a distressed condition ? why, you never replied to our 
letters. Do you know, Grace? 

Grace. She has told me nothing, only that she had received 
no letters — has been too weak to explain. Drar Ida, just sit 
here ; rest your dear head upon my shoulder, and tell me — tell 
us — how you came in such a distressed condition. 

Ida. Yes, dear friends. I cannot relate the particulars now : 

. I can only say, dear Frank lost his oflBce, and was induced to 

leave me, through the instruraentalitv of a false friend, who has 



Oe, California in '49 and '50. 33 

alio intercepted all his letters, so that I have received no money 
from my husband, and by means ol defamation, deprived me of 
my scholars, when I was attempting* to support myself by 
giving lessons in music ; and by means of anonymous letters, 
had me expelled from house after house, till I arrived at the 
miserable lodgings in which you found me. But a few 
moments before your arrival, I had been ordered from the house 
to go forth with my children, to die upon the streets, and oh ! 
oh ! — [ Weeps upon the shoulder of her friend.] 

Mrs. WentiDorth. Oh, my dear, dear child ! oh ! oh ! 

Grace. Oh, dearest, what demon in human form could have 
treated thus my sweet, gentle Ida ? Tell me, dearest ; do I 
know him ? 

Ida. Yes, Grace. 

Grace. His name, Ida ? Ah, tell the name of this wretch, 
this villain. 

Ida. Oh, Grace, darling, if what I suspect is true, 'twill pain 
you to hear ; but I feel it a duty to inform you. Grace, dear, 
whose ring is that upon your finger ? 

Grace. I have no secrets from you, dearest Ida ; 'tis the ring 
placed there by my betrothed — my futurr husband. 

Ida. His name ? let me hear his name, dear Grace. 

Grace. Yes, sweet Ida — Mr. Redington. 

Ida. Oh, gracious Heaven I 'tis as I feared. 

Grace. Oh, Ida, dear ; what mean you ? 

Ida. It pains me, dear friend, to tell you ; but your future 
happiness depends upon your knowledge of the truth. He you 
name, whose ring you wear, is the one who has so wronged me, 
who brought such misery upon me and my dear ones. 

Grace. Oh ! oh ! Ida, dearest, it cannot be true ; you must be 
mistaken, darling. 

Ida. Ah, dear, dear Grace, there is no room for mistake ; I, 
myself, never suspected the author of my misery, until half an 
hour prior to your arrival. He entered my presence, and 
stated — yes, boasted — of iiis villainies, aud mocked at my 
wretched, stiarving condition, and attempted an outrage, from 
which my dirk alone saved me, and left, saying in three days' 
time I would be entirely in his power. 

Grace (rising). Oh ! oh ! the vile, the abominable wretch ! 
and I his affianced! his — his ring upon my finger! Oh! ah! 
it scorches ! burns! stings ! [Draws from her finger the ring ; 
crushes it with her foot.] 

George. Ah, dear Grace, dear sister, 'tis well to know the 
truth in time. 

Mr.Wentworth. Grace, dear daughter, this must be painful 

Mrs. Wenticorth Yes, dear child, you must sufter. 



S4 The Devoted Wife; • 

Grace. No, no, dear mother, dear father, you are mistaken ; 
I know now I never loved him, otherwise other feelings than 
scorn and abhorrence would fill my heart. I see now it was his 
high position, his great wealth that dazzled me. Thank 
Heaven my heart was never his. Ah, the humiliation of this 
hour is a mete punishment lor my folly. 

Ida (placing round Grace her arms). Dear Grace, I am sorry 
to have griev'ed you. 

Grace. Oh, Ida, darling, how can I ever thank you ? but for 
you, what a miserable fate would have been mine. 

[Enter servant girl, with the children.] 

Mrs. WentiDorth. Come here, Gracie ; come here, little Agnes. 
[She places her arms around, and kisses them ] 

Grace. Dear Ida, come now to my room ; I will show you 
some nice things I purchased in Paris, and some presents for 
you, and Gracie, and Agnes. Sarah, bring the children to my 
room. Oh, I have such pretty things for you, Gracie and Agnes. 

Id:f'. Oh, how kind of you, dear Grace. 

[Exit Grace, Ida, children and servant.] 

Mr. Wentworth. What a fortunate escape for our darling 
daiighter. 

Mrs. Wentworth. Fortunate, indeed. 

George. I feel like caning him at sight. Never have I 
heard of a baser villain, a viler wretch. 

Mr. Wentworth Don't think of him ; he is too low for a 
thought. 

[Exit George ] 

Mrs. Wentworth. Dear husband, now that Grace is free, who 
knows but Grace and Mr. Hamilton may — 

Mr. Wentworth. There you are; no sooner is one match at 
an end, than you must be planning for another, ha ! ha ! ha I 

Mrs.WentiDorth. Oh, Fred! 

[Exit Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth.] 

Enter Redington. Grace will be delighted to see me — she 
idolizes me. 

Enter Grace. You here ? 
Redington. Yes, my dear (rrace ; I — 
Grace. Dare you thus address me, sir ? 
Redington. Why, Grace ! What — 



Or, California in '49 and '50. 85 

Grace. Don't you call me Grace ! 

Redington. This seems a cool reception — strange treatment ! 

Grace. Oh ! oh ! most contemptible of villains. 

Bedington. Strange language to address to a gentleman ! 

Grace. A gentleman ? 

Bedington. Yes, Miss Wentworth ; a gentleman. 

Grace. Say rather a scoundrel — a wretch. 

Bedington. Will you, Miss Wentworth, please explain ? this 
extraordin ary — 

Grace. Ah ! you seek for an explanation. 

Bedington. I do. Please explain. 

Grace. You wish me to explain ? then look — behold ! 
[Points loith her hand to Ida und her children as they enter the 
room.] 

Bedington (recoiling) Hell and damnation ! foiled ! 

Grace. Ah, yes ; foiled — foiled, villain ! 

Bedington. For the time, perhaps ; but the end is not yet. 
For your part, Grace Wentworth, in this, and your treatment of 
me, to-day, I shall have ample satisfaction. I have, in revenge 
for the past, caused the once proud Ida Horton to drain to the 
dregs the bitter cup of poverty ; and now you, Grace Went- 
worth, shall be humiliated ; I have it in my power to beggar 
you, and will. 

Grace. Ah ! dare you ? dare you threaten me ? 

Bedington. Yes, proud, haughty girl ; and more than 
threaten, as you soon will know. Your father, Mr. Wentworth, 
is in my power ; I can bankrupt, crush him, and will. 

[Enter Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth.] 

Mr. Wentworth. Ah ! what is that you say, Mr. Redington ? 
Not so fast ; perhaps you are mistaken. To satisfy your 
demands may take the greater portion of my property, but will 
come far from ruining me. 

Mrs. Wentworth Perhaps, basest of men, you do not know 
that I have fift^ thousand dollars of my own. So, think not to 
beggar us, as you did this dear child. [Places her arms around 
Idal] Oh ! oh ! you unmanly wretch ! 

Mr. Wentworth. After satisfying your demands, I shall have 
remaining more than the amount my wife has named as her 
own. 

Bedington. The devil ! foiled again ! 

Grace. Ah, yes ; foiled, foiled ; and now, monster of creation, 
incarnate fiend, demon, leave us ; you pollute with your vile 
presence the air we breathe. Go, wretch ! go, begone I [Points 
mth ?ier hand to the door.] 



36 The Devoted Wife; 

Redington. I go, but go to be revenged. Yes, Grace Went- 
worth, you will hear from me sooe, as also your father, I will — 

Enter George Wenticorth. Ah, miscreant, villain! here? and 
threatening my father and my sister? Begone, vile cur! 
but first take that, and that, and — {Lays over his shoulders a 
cane. Mr. Wentworth sounds violently the hell. Enter two colored 
servants.'] 

Mr. Wentwoi'th (to servants). See Mr. Redington to the door. 

Redington (struggling in George's grasp). Dare you ? dare 
you? By all the fiends in hell ! you will suffer for — 

George. Begone, despicable villain ! you are not dealing now 
with a weak, defenceless woman. Out of the door I [Hurls him 
toward the door. As he is rising, servants advance^ 

Curtain Falls. 



ACT FOURTH. 

Scene : California. Mountain canon ; rocky cliffs, zcith evergreen 
trees on sides and summit ; a waterfall ; peaks of mountains, 
covered loith snoic. 

[Enter two miners, driving a donkey laden with supplies — 
sacks of flour, sugar, small keg, etc. Miners with blankets on 
their shoulders ; they converse as they move on in direction of 
camp.] 

Charles. Well, Harry, we are pretty near home, now — only 
three miles to camp ; feel better after that rest and smoke. I 
think they will be glad to see us at the cabin ; should not be 
surprised if they were short of provisions. 

Harry. Yes ; I recon grub is gettin' scarce. {To donkey) 
Get alang — get — get. 

Charles. We ought to have been back two days ago ; so let 
us hurry on. 

Harry. Thart's so, Charley. {To donkey) Get — get alang. 
Dorg my cats ! if this hare isn't jist the laziest donkey I ever 
seed yet. Get alang [Exit miners.] 



Or, California in '49 and '50. 37 

[As soon as tliey have disappeared from view on their way up 
the canon, the shrieks of a woman are heard, and Ida Sumner, 
with her two children, appear, fleeing and screaming, closely 
pursued by Redington, dressed as a policeman, who overtakes, 
and seizes her in his arms.] 

Ida {Qeemg). Help! help! 

Redington. Ah ! I have you now, my little charmer, ha ! ha ! 
ha! 

Ida. Oh ! oh ! unhand me, ruffian ! Oh ! oh ! let me go ! 
Help! oh! help! 

Redington. Ha ! ha ! ha ! scream as loud as you please, my 
pretty one Thought you had escaped me, did you? Thought 
me thousands of miles away, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Ida. Oh ! oh ! wretch ! villain ! let me go ! let me go ! Help ! 
help! 

Redington. Ha! ha! ha! no help for you now, my sweet 
Ida. You see, I am an officer, ha ! ha ! ha ! you are my pris- 
oner ; must take you back to San Francisco, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Ida. Never ! never ! Oh ! oh ! merciful Heaven ! help me ! 
save me ! Oh ! oh ! {struggling). 

Redington Ah ! you struggle in vain, my pretty bird. Did 
I not tell you these fond arms would enfold you ? ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Ida. dh ! oh ! are there none to help — to save me ? Murder ! 
murder ! 

[The children cry and scream in alarm. Charles and Harry 
appear, revolvers in hand, running from the direction they dis- 
appeared, Charles in advance.] 

Charles. Unhand that lady, scoundrel ! 

Harry. You jist let go that ar gal, or I'll blow the top of 
your head off! dorg my cats if I doesn't ! 

Ida (escaping Irom the grasp of Redington, and running 
toward Charles and Harry). Oh ! oh ! gentlemen, protect me — 
save me ! Oh ! oh ! protect — 

Charles. With our lives, fair lady. 

Harry. Protect ? wal I recon we sharl. Dorg my — 

Charles. What means this unmanly assault upon a lady ? 

Redington. She has robbed her husband, at t^an Francisco, 
and then left him, carrying the children with her. I am an 
officer, sent in pursuit ; have just arrested her, and intend 
taking her back with me to the city, and warn you both, in the 
name of the law, against interfering with an officer in the per- 
formance of his duty. 

Ida. Oh ! oh ! indeed, sir — indeed, gentlemen — 'tis false — 
tis false what he says. He is no officer, but a villain. Oh ! 



3B The Devoted Wife; 

oil ! sir ; credit not his statements ; I — I am not what he says — 
believe me. 

Charles. Certainly, lady ; we believe your statement. And 
now, sir, you can leave. 

Harry. Yas ; you'd better be a traveling, shure, if you 
knows wharfs good fur your health — dorg my cats if you 
haint. 

Redingtoji. I tell you I am an officer, and that woman is my 
prisoner. So, go about your business, and don't — 

Charles. Show your warra t, Mr. Officer. 

Ida. Oh ! indeed, sir, he is no officer ; he is — 

Redington. I am ready to show my warrant to the proper 
authorities. You see my star — that is sufficient. So, stand 
aside, and let me have my prisoner. 

Ida. Oh ! oh ! protect me ! Oh ! oh ! 

Charles. Be not alarmed ; you are safe. {Pointing his pistol.) 
Stand where you are, villain. ! 

Redington. I tell you I am — 

Harry. Now you jist dry up and git ! git ! I tell you, or I 
will lift your har, shure — dorg my cats if I doesn't ! {Points his 
pistol.) Git — git — varmous — preramulate ! 

Redington. You have the advantage of me, so I will leave, 
but will cause you to regret interfering with the execution of 
the law. You will hear from me again, and soon. {Exit 
Redington.) 

Charles. Now, lady, will you please inform us how you came 
to be traveling, without a protector, in these wild parts, and 
who the man that molested you ? and — 

Ida. Oh ! yes, sir ; he is a villian that has followed me all the 
way from the States. I was on the way to the mines to see my 
husband, who I heard was sick, and — 

[Re enter Redington, and fires three shots in quick succes- 
sion at Charles and Harry, who are standing with their backs 
towards him. One of the shots wound Charles in the left arm ; 
they turn and fire two or three shots at Redington, who falls 
senseless. Ida screams ; children cry in alarm.] 

Harry. Thar, now, you sneaking varmint ; recon we harve 
done for you ; dorg my cats if I dosen't 

Charles. Yes, Harry ; think we have cheated the gallows. 

Ida. Oh ! oh ! sir ; you are blneding — are wounded ; oh ! oh ! 

Harry. So you is, Charley ; now, recon tharts a judgment 
])on us for not shooting thart varmint at sight; never will be 
guilty of no sich foolishness agin ; dorg my my cats if I does. 

Chmies. 'Tis nothing ; here, Harry, bind this handkerchief 
round my arm to stop the bleeding. 



Or, California in '49 and '50. 39 

Ida. Oh, sir ; let me, please? 

Charles. Thank you ; but Harry will attend to it. 

Harry Ah, this aint northin. (Binds up the arm.) Thar, 
Charley ; you is all right. 

Ida. Oh sir ! Oh gentlemen ! how can I ever repay your 
kindness — the service you have rendered me ? 

Charles. Don't speak of it, lady ; but please inform us who 
we have the happiness of serving ? 

Ida Oh yes, sir ; my name is Ida Sumner, and my hus- 
hand's — 

Charles. What? is it possible I have the pleasure of ad- 
dressing Mrs. Sumner? 

Harry Whart ? is you Frank Sumner's wife ? 

Ida. Yes, yes — Oh ! then you know my husband ? 

Harry. Whart ? knows Frank ? recon we does, shure, ha ! 
ha! ha! 

Charles. Your husband is one of our partners in the mine. 

Ida. Oh, I am so glad ! How is my husband ? Let me go 
to him. 

Charles. I am happy to inform you he is now quite well. I 
am your husband's friend, Charles Raymond. 

Ida. Oh, Mr. Raymond, how can I ever repay you for the ser- 
vices you have rendered me. Your kindness to my husband in 
his sickness — 

Charles. Speak not of it, Mrs. Sumner. Ah ! here comes Jake 
from the camp ; think — 

{From the direction of mines a horseman appears.) 

Jake. Hallo, boys ! Wharfs up ?— come to meet and hurry 
you up ; nearly out of grub at the cabin ; seed the donkey with 
provisions just above, then hearn the shooting — wharfs the 
row ? who is thart feller you've laid out ? and who is — 

Harry. Out of grub is you ? Wal I war reconing — 

Charles. Never mind Jake; we will tell you all about it as 
we go along. You're just the man we wanted to see, so just dis- 
mount. Want that horse for this lady. 

Jake. {Dismounting.) Sartainly, she's welcome sure, but 
who is you, Miss ? 

Harry. She ar' Frank's wife ; tharf s who she am. 

Jake. Frank's wife ? wal now, mighty glard to see you Miss, 
and recon Frank warnt be sorry. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Ida. Thank you, sir. 

Charles Permit me, Mrs. Sumner, {tieats her oil the horse.) 
Harry, Jake, you carry the children ; 1 will walk by your side, 
Mrs. Sumner ; that gentleman's saddle is not a very secure seat 
for a lady— 



40 The Devoted Wife 



Ida. Oh, thank you, sir ! How kind you are. 

Charles. Speak not of it, Mrs. Sumner. Ah ! my friend 
Frank little dreams of the happiness for him so close at hand 

Harry to Grade. Come, pooty little gal, don't be feard of 
Harry. Reckon you'll soon see daddy now, ha! ha! ha! 

Jake. Come, little gal {Harry and Jake lift the children in 
their arms.) 

Charley. Ready boys ; move on. {Exit all.) 

{Enter two miners on their way up the canon, picks and shovels 
on their shoulders.) 

Steve. Hallo ! what have we here. Bob ? a man killed ? 
Bob. Looks like it, Steve, let us see if he is dead ; no, he 
breathes. 

Steve. A constable, too, it appears ; see his star. Unbutton 
his coat Bob ; 'twill help revive him. 

Bob. Yes, Steve {Unbuttons Redington's Coat.) Hallo! 
look here Steve, see this watch and chain worth five hundred 
dollars at least, and that diamond breast-pin, worth at least as 
much more. See his linen, too, don't look much like an officer 
on duty. Guess there's some shinnanigan here. 

Steve. Looks like sailing under false colors ; Ah ! he is com- 
ing too; we will question him. Well stranger, what's the 
trouble ? How came you in your present position ? If that bul- 
let had varied half an inch it would have entered your brain 
Who shot you, and why? {Bedington sitting tip and qazina 
round.) ^ 

Bedington. Robbers, sir ; I was traveling, and 

Bob. Robbers — hold on stranger, that story won't pass don't 
think you would be sporting that watch, chain, and diamond 
breast-pin — 

Bedington. {Bising.) I meant to say I was an officer— was 
trying to arrest some desperadoes ; they resisted, and one of 
them shot me, as you see ; and — 

Steve. Well, that story appears somewhat more probable • 
pity you did not think of it sooner ; to be plain with you, I think 
you are just as much an officer as myself, and no more.' 

Bedington. Believe what you please, I have stated facts 

Bob. Come, Steve, let us be going. Well, good-day strano-er 
All I have to say, if you are not a villian, your looks sadly^e- 
lie you ; and I advise you not to show that ugly-lookino- phiz 
up at the camp, as the Vigilants there have a good supply of 
hemp ; so, stranger, better get out of these diggins soon • better 
take the back track. 

Steve. That's so. Good-day stranger. {Exit miners.) 



Or, California in '49 and '60. 41 

Redington. Confound these infernal miners ; curses on them 
all. Had it not been for them I should now have been on the 
way to San Francisco with my prisoner ; yes, Ida Sumner, soon 
had you in private lodgings. And have I followed you all the 
way here to lose you at last? Have you indeed escaped me? 
Ah, if so, I can at least obtain my revenge. I will follow you 
to the camp, and send a bullet through Frank Sumner's heart, 
if I am hanged for it. Yes, fair Ida, your triumph will be 
short, ha I ha I ha ! {Exit, on way up the canon) 



Scene Second : Miners' Cabin. 

[Enter from outside door. Bill and Jim; from adjoining room, 
Frank Sumner.] 

Frank. Why, boys, what have you done with the stools? 
and — 

Bill. Wal, Frank, you see wee's been scrubbing the floor, 
and so we tooked the stools and all the furniture to the tother 
room. 

Jim. rie fotch in the stools, Frank. {Ooes and brings in the 
stools.) 

Bill. You raley is goin to lave us to-morrow, Frank ? 

Frank. Yes, Bill; I am well enough to travel now, and 
must go on East to see my family, and perhaps bring them 
back with me ; I can wait no longer. 

Jm. Wonder whart keeps Charley and Harry so long? 
Mighty poor feeding— no coffee, no sugar, no bacon, nor northin, 
only pertatoes and slap-jacks, and no 'lasses to eat on 'em. 

Bill. Mighty poor grub, no use talking; wornder whart 
keeps them 8 ?. 

Enter Harry. How is you, boys ? 

Jim. Wal, so you're back at larst ; glard to see you, Harry. 

Frank. How are you, Harry ? Where is Charley ? 

Harry. He will be along ; don't worry about him. So grub 
war gettin scarce, war it ?. 

Bill. Thart's so, you bet ; northin but 'taters and slap-jacks, 
and no 'lasses to eat on 'em ; hope you didn't forget the 'lasses! 

Harry. The 'lasses— ha ! ha ! ha !— tell you, boys, wees 
fotch ed along jist the sweetest kind of 'lasses ; recon Frank 
thar will think so ; dorg my cats if I don't, ha ! ha I ha ! 

Jim. Whart's yous talking about ? 

Bill. Why, Harry, whart kind of 'lasses ar thart ? 

Harry. You will know arter awhile; but say, whart you 
think we sawed down at the mouth of the canon ? 



42 The Devotep Wife; • 

Jim. Oarn't say. 

Bill. A grizzly, p'raps. 

Harry. No; twarn't no bar; but Frank, you jist guess 
wliart we seed. 

Frank. Was it a deer ? 

Harry. A dear? — lia ! ha ! ha ! Dorg my cats if you diden't 
hit the nail right square on the head the furst time. Yes 
recon, Frank, you'd called it a dear, shure, ha ! ha ! — 

Bill. Wal, did you phoot it ? A little vanson would — 

Harry. Whart ? shoot thart ar dear ? — ha ! ha ! Wal, recon 
ef I hard, Frank thar would harve lifted my har, shure, ha ! 
ha ! ha I 

Frank. What are you driving at, Harry ? I don't under- 
stand. 

Harry. Wal recon you will arter a while. Now I tell you 
thart ar dear was awful pooty to look art. and could talk too, and 
said as how she war Frank Sumner's dear, and, dorg my cats ef 
here dosen't come thart ar dear and the two little dears. Ha, 
ha, ha ! ha, ha, ha ! 

{Fnter Ida S^imner, the Uco children, folloiced by Charles and 
Jake.) 

Ida. Oh, Frank! dear Frank I Dear husband ! {Frank Sum- 
ner enfolds her in his arins.) 

Frank. Good Heavens! my wife! Ida — Ida — dearest! Ah! 
how came you here, my darling ? Have angels borne you on 
their wings ? 

Ida. I came, dearest, because I heard you were sick, and I 
wanted to see you, oh, so much ! 

Frank. How pale you are looking, dearest ! You have suf- 
fered — 

Ida. Never mind Frank ; oh, I have indeed suffered much, 
but that is ot the past ; speak not of it, love. 

Frank. And my little ones, come to my arms, darlings ; papa 
is so happy to see again his little pets, Gracie and Agnes. 

Grade. Oh, dear papa! dear papa! don't go away any more, 
papa! 

Frank. No, pet, no more separations. Little Agnes, have 
you nothing to say to papa ? 

Agjies. Papa ! dear papa ! 

Frank. But, dear Ida, how did you come ? and tell me, dear 
wife — 

Ida. I will tell you all, dear Frank, when I am — 

Frank. Yes, dear Ida, wait till you are rested. Excuse me, 
Charles, for not addressing you sooner, but what is the matter 
with your arm ? 



Or, California in '49 and '50. 43 

Charles. A trifling wound, not worth speaking of; I will 
inform you after awhile. 

Ida. Oh, dear husband, it was on my account he was wounded. 

Frank. Explain, Ida, dear. 

Ida. Yes, jes — 

Charles. Don't explain at present, Mrs. Sumner; wait till 
you have recovered from the fatigue of your journey. 

[Enter Mountain Tom ; also a number of miners.] 

Harry. Wal, now, dorg my cats if hare don't come old Griz- 
aly. How is you, old hoss ? 

Mountaiii Tom. Harty, harty ; how's yourself, Harry? How 
are ye, boys ? How does you do, Frank"? come to take look at 
thart ar leetle woman of yourn. 

Frank. Glad to see you, Tom. Ida, this is a friend of mine, 
Mountain Tom. 

Tom. Thart's so, you bet ; and of thart little wife of yourn, 
too. Wal, now, if she 'aint awful pooty ; dog goned if she ain't. 
Must shake hands, pooty one, must shake hands with Frank's 
wife; think a heap of Frank, I does. Wal, wal ; now, if thart 
thar ain't jist the pootiest leetle hand thart old Tom ever did 
saw ; and jist as soft as mashed pertaters; dorg goned if 'taint, 
boys. 

Miners. Ha ! ha ! ha ! bully for yoa, Tom. Go it, old Griz- 
zly ! go it ! go it while you are young ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Frank. Ha ! ha ! ha ! so you see, Ida, you have not escaped 
compliments by coming to California, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Tom. 'Spect, Miss, you think me a mighty rough old block ; 
but my heart is in the right place ; thart's so, ain't it. boys? 

Miners. Thart's so, Tom, thart's so — yes sirree ; you bet, 
you bet. 

Tom. Yes, thart's so, pooty one; and if ever you wants a 
friend, jist you call on old Tom ; if ever you is in trouble, jist 
gin a yell, and old Tom will be thar shure — dorg-goned if he 
wont. 

Ida. I am happy to see you, sir, and thank you, sir, for your 
kind regard. 

Tom. Wal, don't see 'zactly whart you've got to tharnk me 
for jist now ; but jist bare in mind, old Tom is your friend, and 
will be on hand when he's wanted— dorg- goned if he wont. 

[While Mountain Tom is talking, some of the miners, past 
middle age, who entered with him, have caught up in their 
arms the two children, and tossing them about, say to one an- 
other : " Whart that put you in mind of, say ? — of the little 
ones at home, hey ?" "Ain't she a buty ?" etc.] 



44 The Devoted Wife; 

Charles. Well, boys, I think we had better adjourn to the 
tavern ; think our friend Frank would like a little private con- 
versatioi; with his fair wife, after their long separation. 

Miners. Thart's so — thart's so. 

Bill. Wal, boys, let's ajoin to the tavern. 

Harry. Yes, yes, boys, and drink to the health of Frank 
Sumner and his pooty little wife. 

Tom. I'm with you thar — dorg-goned if I isn't. Wal, good 
bye, FranK ; good bye, pooty one. [^Exit Miners.'] 

Frank. And now, dear Ida, explain your miraculous appear- 
ance here, and how you came to be in such a distressed condi- 
tion. Where were your friends ? where my friend, Redington ? 

Ida. Oh ! oh ! Frank, dear ; stop, please ; but tell me, when 
can you send for my trunk at the hotel below ? 

Frank Your trunk ? Why, dearest, look around you ; is 
this a fit place of abode, think you, for my sweet wife? No, no. 
Wait till you are rested, and then I will get a wagon, to con- 
vey you back to the tavern. I shall remain there with you for 
a few weeks, till I have arranged some business here. We will 
then go to San Francisco, and there make our home. We are 
no longer poor, but rich, dear wife. One of the partners of the 
mine must reside in San Francisco, and, out of consideration for 
my fair wife, I have been appointed to that position. 

Ida. How kind of them ! Oh, I am so glad ! 

Frank. But tell me, Ida, how came you in such — 

Ida. Yes, yes, dear husband, as soon as I am rested. But 
where will I find some water, and a mirror? Where is your 
toiler set ? 

Frank. Toilet-set? ha! ha! ha! Mine is very primitive, 
certainly — consists of a tin basin. As for the mirror, I gener- 
ally carry it in my pocket, ha ! ha ! ha ! 'tis at present in the 
other room, by side of said basin. Come with me, dear ; come, 
my little darlings. {Exit all.'] 



Scene Third : Interior of miners' tavern — har-room. Present, 
landlord, behind the bar, smoking a pipe; four miners seated 
around pine table, playing cards ; two or three standing look- 
ing on ; near the bar stand Mountain Tom, Bill and Jim. 

Mountain Tom. Whar's Charley and Harry ? 

Jim. Oh, recon they will be along. As we war coming, they 
seed a man goin' in the saloon jist below, tliart they said they 
wanted to get a closer look art, so they followed him in, 

BUI. Whart they want of him ? 



Ob, Califobnia in '49 and '50. 45 

Jim. Said as how he looked mighty like ' the man they 
dropped down near the mouth of the canon ; recon, if it are 
him, he will think he has come to the wrong place when the 
Vigilance get hold on him. {Elxit of miners looking on at card- 
table.) 

Tom. Wharfs he done, Jim ? 

Jim. If it are him, he's done 'nough to hang him, shure. 
Wal, I will tell you : Charley and Harry was coming 'long, 
when — 

[Miners at card-table.J 

Will. Hallo, Dave ; no cheating thar ! 

Dave. Do you say thart I'm cheating ? 

Will. Wal, Dave, whart I seed, I seed ; and whart I seed, I 
isn't afeard to say. 

Dave (rising). Now, Will Brown, if you says as how I 
cheated, you lie. 

Will (rising, pistol in hand). Dare you tells me thart I lies ? 

Bill. Wal, now, boys, dry up ; stop your fooling. 

Jim. Yes, boys ; put up your shooting-irons ; you is both 
drunk, and dou'i know whart you is saying ; so — 

Will. I knows whart I am saying. 1 seed Dave a-cheating, 
and — 

Dave. You lie ! 

[Both fire two or three shots each. Miners endeavor to get 
their pistols away. Mountain Tom hurls one of them back- 
ward, and places himself between them.l 

Torn. Stop thart ! no sich foolin' hare ! put up your pop-guns I 
If you warnt for to shoot, come along with old Tom to the 
woods, and shoot bars, wolves, Injuns, and sich like varmints, 
aud don't go for to be a-shooting one tother. 

Bill. Boys, you is both got too much licker down — thart's 
wharfs the marter. 

Dave. No one sharl say I's cheated. 

Will. Nor thart I lies. 

Tom. Now, boys, jist shake hands; you is both friends; 
wharfs the use of quaraling over a pack of keards. Now, Will, 
be a man ; jist takes back whart you said ; rekon 'twar the 
licker whart made you seed double. 

Bill. Yes, Will ; 'twar so, shijre — bet my hat on it. 

Will. Wal, boys, recon you isn't far from the mark. So, 
come, Dave, let's shake hands ; I takes it back — thinks it war 
the licker, shure. [Thei/ shake hands.] 

Dave. All right. Will, Come, boys, let's take a drink. [All 
walk up to t/ie bar.] 



^6 The Devoted Wife; ^ 

Landlord. Well, boys ; what will you have? 

Dave. Whiskey for me — none of your manufactured pisen 
you calls brandy. 

Landlord. Dry up, Dave ; 1 have some of as good brandy as 
ever was brought to California. 

Will. Thart may all be ; recon, howsoever, you keeps it all 
for your own private and particular use ; hain't seen none sich 
brandy hare myself, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Miners. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Landlord. Ha ! ha ! ha ! you are sharp this morning, Will — 
comes from drinking good liquor, you see, ha! ha! ha! 

Dave. Bully for you, Landlord ! ha ! ha ! ha ! so, come, let 
us harve some of thart good licker, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Landlord. There you are — brandy or whiskey, as you 
choose. {^Miners pour out, and drink.'\ 

Bill. Hare's luck. 

Mountain Tom. Now, thart's whart I calls good licker, boys 
— dorg-goned if 'taint. 

Bill. You bet — yes sirree. 

Jim. Thart's so, boys — no use talking. 

Landlord. I knew you would say so, boys. But what is the 
row outside ? \Noi8c heard without.'] 

Jim. Recon the Vigilance has got hold of thart ar chap 
Charley and Harry war talkin' 'bout. Yes ; hare they comes 
\^Loud shouts are heard outside.] 

Miners. Hang him ! hang him ! No ! no ! take him in the 
tavern ! let's have all of the evidence. All right, boys ; fotch 
him along ! 

[Enter an excited crowd of miners, Redington in their midst, 
a rope around his neck.] 

Harry. Yes, Jim ; it war him, shure ; rekon we'll fix him 
this time — dorg my cats if we don't. 

Tom. Wharfs he did ? 

Harry. You'll hear — enough to hang him, shure. 

Ghai'les. Now, Henry Redington, you are about to receive the 
mete reward for your villainies. Your time is brief; so, if you 
have anything to say, the Committee will hear your statements. 

Redington. If you expect me to speak, take from off my neck 
this conf unded rope. How am I to talk while half choked ? 

Doctor. Well, boys, take off the rope ; no danger of his 
escaping. [Miners take off Redington'' s neck the rope.] 

Charles. Now, sir ; wliat have you to say ? 

Redington. I have much to say. This is an unlawful pro 
ceeding. I deny your authority to try me. I have committed 
no murder, or other crime, to which is attached the death pen- 
alty ; and — 



Or, California in '49 and '50. 47 

Charles. Enough of that. You have heard, boys, at the 
saloon, Harry's evidence, and my own, concerning what 
occurred this morning near the mouth of the canon ; and it is 
plain that his purpose in coming here was to injure still more 
Frank Sumner, or his gentle wife. Say, scoundrel ; tell us why 
you are here. 

Redington. I deny your right to question me. 

Doctor. Ah, indeed. Well, boys, let us proceed. I tliink 
best to have all the evidence in this case, so propose that Mr. 
and Mrs. Sumner be summoned, to state what they know of the 
prisoner. 

Harry. Wal, now, Doctor, whart's the use of bothering 
Frank and his wife 'bout it ? we knows 'nough of tbart ar var- 
mint to hang him, and we can jist as wal git particulars of 
Frank and his little woman some totlier day. 

Ta7n. Say, boys, whart's he did? and w^iart's Frank and his 
pooty little woman got to do 'bout it ? 

Harry. You will hare arter awhile, Tom. 

Charles As you say. Doctor, Mr. and Mrs. Sumner ought to 
be summoned. Think Harry's proposition, to hang the prisoner, 
and hear the evidence afterward, must be considered decidedly 
irregular ; so will go and bring Frank and — 

Redington. Never mind going for them ; but listen to me. 
I am wealthy — am possessed of millions in gold ; so, gentle- 
men, liberate me, and I will give you one-half I am worth — a 
million in gold to divide among you ; think of it — a million 
of gold ! 

Miners. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! offer gold to the miners of Cali- 
fornia ! bring your coals to Newcastle ! ha ! ha I — 

Charles. Your gold will not save you, Henry Redington. 

Miners. Thart's so — thart's so. 
■ Harry. Yes, thart's so— dorg my cats if 'tisn't. 

Charles. I will be back in a few minutes, boys. [Exit.]. 

Steve. Recon you begin to wish you had taken our advice, 
and followed the back track. Didn't we warn you that your 
ugly looking phiz would get you in trouble if you came to 
these diggins ; and say, where is your star ? thought that game 
played out, hey ? 

Boh. Say, did we not tell you the Vigilance at this camp 
had a plentiful supply of hemp on hand? • 

2hm. But whart's this all about, boys? whart's thart ar 
man did ? 

Harry. You will hare, Tom, soon as Frank and his leetle 
woman gets hare— and hare they come. 

[Enter Charles, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Sumner, and 
children.] 



48 The DeVoted Wife; • 

Frank. Make way, boys ; let me blast tlie villain witli my 
looks. Say, false friend, perfidious scoundrel, demonical wretch, 
is deatli — is death upon the gallows a mete reward for such 
villainies as yours ? Ah, were it not for cheating the g allows, 
I would now send a bullet through your false, depraved heart ! 

Ida. Oh, Frank ! dear husband ! oh, gentlemen ! perhaps he 
will promise not to trouble or harm us more if you let him go. 

Charles. Undoubtedly the villain would promise anything; 
but I could not advise his liberation, as I am confident, Mrs. 
Sumner, your life, or that of your husband, would be forfeited 
by our so doing. 

Harry. Thart's so, thart's so ; I sees the devil in his eyes ; 
so hang him, I say, to make sure. 

Miners. Yes, yes ; hang him ! hang him ! 

Tom. Now, leetle pooty one, jist tell me ef thart ar man has 
did you harm. 

Ida. Oh ! oh ! don't ask me, sir, please. 

Doctor. Will you, Mrs. Sumner, please state to the Commit- 
tee what you know of the prisoner, Henry Redington ? 

Ida. Oh ! no, no ; please don't ask me, sir ; please don't 
question me, gentlemen. 

Frank. Well, gentlemen, as my gentle wife is not disposed 
to testify against the prisoner, Harry Redington, though I 
know it is irregular, I will state briefly what she told me with- 
in the hour. You can receive my second-hand statement for 
what it is worth. Gentlemen of the Committee : Harry Red- 
ington, while professing to be my friend, obtained, by his influ- 
ence, my discharge from Government employ ; under the guise 
of friendship, advised my coming to California, and leaving, in 
Washington City, my wife. When deprived of her protector, 
he sought to carry out his fiendish intentions in regard to her ; 
by means of defamation and anonymous letters, he deprived her 
of all means of support, and had her expelled from various 
lodging-houses, to starve upon the street ; by watching the 
mails, he stole all of my letters to her, containing money for her 
and my children's support ; and — 

Miners all. Enough — enough. Death to the scoundrel ! 
Death to the villain ! Hang him ! hang him ! Up with him ! 
up with the wretch ! 

Harry. Dorg my cats! whar's thart rope, boys? pass it 
along, boys. 

Mou7itain Tom. Jist let old Tom harve hold on the end of 
thart ar rope ; if I's don't hist him lively — dorg-goned if I don't, 
boys. Fetch him along, boys. 

Redington. Hold on a moment! hear me I Take all my 
wealth, bat spare my life ! Two millions of gold — of gold ! 

Ida. Oh ! oh ! don't hang him, gentlemen ! he is not fit to 
die! 



Or, Calefoenia in '49 and '50. 49 

Charles. True, Mrs. Sumner ; but neither is so base a wretch 
fit to live. 

Miners. Thart's so — thart's so, Charley. Death to the 
hound ! hang him ! hang the varmint ! 

Ida. But — but, gentlemen, if you will not spare his life, 
give him time —at least a day — to prepare for death. Oh, 
gentlemen ! f©r my sake, please. 

Charles. Well, boys — well, gentlemen — I don't think we 
can resist that last appeal. All in favor of granting this lady's 
request, signify it by saying Aye. 

Miners all. Aye ! aye ! aye ! 

Charles. Contrary, No. Carried unanimously. So, Henry 
Redington, you see, what your gold could not purchase, is 
granted by the request of the gentle being you have so cruelly 
wronged. You have one day more to live. 

Fi-ank. My dear Ida, my gentle wife, your sympathies are 
wasted here. The infamous scoundrel standing there is inca- 
pable of feeling — either gratitude for your intercession in his 
behalf, or the least compunction for his misdeeds. So, dearest — 

Ida. Oh ! oh ! Frank ; but 'tis so terrible to die so unpre- 
pared. 

Doctor. The time is brief, Henry Redington, for at this hour 
to-morrow you will die. 

Redington. Then, if die I must, I will die avenged ! 

[Draws from his bosom a dirk, and rushes toward Frank 
Sumner. Ida, shrieking, throws herself upon her husband's 
bosom, to shield him from the knife. The miners send up 
shouts' of warning. Mountain Tom, who is standing near, 
springs before them, and receives in his left arm the knife, and 
plunges liis own into the side of Redington.] 

Mountain Tarn. Old Grizzly's thar ! Ah-ha ! 

[Redington staggers wildly back ; but, ere he falls, receives 
the contents of some half a dozen pistols in the hands of the 
excited miners.] 

Ea/rry. Thar, now ! rekon we's settled your hash this time, 
sure, you infarnal varmint ! rekon you won't play possum this 
time — dorg my cats if you does 1 
Doctor. The villain has cheated the gallows after all 1 
Miners. Thart's so — thart's so — no use talking — thart's so. 

[Several miners carry Redinglion to adjoining room, then 
Teturn.] 

8 



60 The Devoted Wipe; 

Frank. Good Heaven ! loved Ida ; why did you thus venture 
your precious life ? 

Ida. To save yours, dear, dear Frank. Oh ! oh ! if he had 
killed you ! 

Frank. And yourself, dear one? Do you not know, my 
darling, your life is far more precious to me than my own ? 

Ida. But not to me, dear Frank ; and — Oh ! oh ! you, dear 
eir, are wounded ! You saved my husband's life, also my own ! 
oh ! how can we thank you, sir ? — how hope ever to repay ? 

Mountain Tom. By jist not saying nothing more 'bout it, 
pooty one. Didn't old Tom tell you, when you wanted a friend 
— when you war in trouble — jist to gin a yell, and old Grizzly 
would be thar, shure ? And so, you see, he war — dorg-goned if 
he wasn't ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Miners. Thart's so — thart's so, Tom — you bet — you bet — 
dorg my cats if he warn't ! 

Frank. Thank you, Tom, my noble-hearted friend ; you 
have saved a life far more precious than my own. But, 
my friend, you are bleeding ; have your wound attended to at 
once. 

Doctor. I will attend to Tom. For the present, a hanker- 
chief will do. 

Tom. Thart ain't nothing ; the bars harve clawed old Tom 
W088 than thart, many a time. 

diaries. Gentlemen, I have seen women, in time of peril, 
flee to their husbands' arms for protection ; but this is the first 
time I have seen a woman throw herself upon her husband's 
bosom to shield him from the assassin's knife. This, I think, 
may well be termed a wife's devotion. 

Doctor. I propose, boys, three cheers for l<"rank Sumner's 
devoted wife. 

Mountain Tom. Three times three, boys. 

Miners all. Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! — 

Curtain Falls. 

[At the close, the miners have taken in their arms the 
children, and are seen tossing them about. Ida stands, leaning 
upon her husband's bosom, encircled by his arms, they in 
front. — When Ida enters miners' tavern, she has on her head 
a shawl, in place of a hat,] 



Or, California in '49 and '50. 61 



ACT FIFTH. 

Scene : Public parlor of hotel, San Francisco. Present: Mr. 
and Mrs. Wentworth. 

[Enter George Wentworth.] 

Mr. Wentworth. Well, dear wife, I am glad to find myself 
once more on terra firma; think I have seen enough of life on 
the ocean wave to suffice me for the remainder of my existence. 

Mrs. Wentworth. I am quite positive that I have. Oh 1 oh ! 
those horrid lines ! — a life on the rollincr deep ! Oh ! oh ! 

George. As for me, I enjoyed the trip, especially after leav- 
ing Panama. But where is Grace ? 

Mrs. Wentworth. Grace and James are in their room, unpack- 
ing their trunks. 

[Enter Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton.] 

Grace. Mother, dear, how do you like San Francisco? 

Mrs. Wentworth. I have seen too little of the city to give an 
opinion ; everything seems so strange. 

Grace. I am sure I shall like California ; the climate is 8o„ 
mild, and this mid-winter. Think of it — sleighing in the States, 
and here, verdant hills, blooming roses, and fragrant flowers of 
every variety. And , as for the city, I think it so delightfully 
odd. But, dear husband, I thought everybody in California 
rich ; and yet, the houses are in great part mere shanties — some 
built of wood, some of iron, and some even covered with cloth — 
ha ! ha ! ha ! what an idea ! — and the surrounding hills covered 
with tents. 

Mr. Wentworth. As Grace says, this is at present an odd- 
appearing city ; but then its position promises much. When 
the mines have become fully developed, and the wealth of gold, 
flowing as it will to this destined metropolitan city of the 
Pacific Coast, great changes will be witnessed : these sandhills, 
dotted with tents, will be levelled, and fine streets, with stately 
buildings, will occupy their place. 

Hamilton. Yes, truly, Mr. Wentworth, and sooner than 
many imagine. We may all of us live to see this unrivalled 
harbor floating the commerce of the world ; the extensive 
plains and numerous valleys of California waving with golden 
grain ; her thousand hills covered with bleating flocks — thus 
furnishing both bread for distant nations, and material for their 
factories, as well as for those we shall erect. 



62 The Devoted Wipe; 

George. You seem, sirs, to be in a prophetic strain. Let me 
add to the pleasing picture, the good time coming, and now so 
close at hand, when California will take her place among the 
fair Sisterhood of States, and her golden star shine resplendent 
amid the bright constellation of our Union. 

Mrs. Wentworth. I agree with you in what you say relative 
to the future of San Francisco ; but I hardly think the good 
times you speak of so close at hand. You, our children, may 
live to see your anticipations fulfilled ; but husband and myself 
can scarce expect it. 

Hamilton. Dear madam, I not only hope, but truly believe, 
you will both be witnesses of what we have portrayed. 

Grace. Oh, well, gentlemen, just let the future take care of 
itself, and come back to the present, if you please. So, tell me, 
dear James, why so many men on the streets wear red flannel 
shirts ; are they all firemen ? 

Hamilton. Firemen ? ha ! ha ! ha ! No, dear wife, they are 
the miners of whom you speak. 

Grace. What! miners? — gold-miners? — and can't afford to 
wear coats ? 

Hamilton. Ha ! ha ! ha ! it is not poverty, dear Grace, but a 
matter of choice, with them. 

George. I presume their occupation determines their choice 
of costume. 

Grace. Oh ! I would so like to go to the mines, and pick up 
some gold. And, oh ! tell me ! how far is it to the mines 
where Mr. and Mrs. Sumner are residing ? Oh, dear, dear Ida ! 
how surprised she will be to hear that I am in California — and 
married, too! ha I ha! ha! Oh! tell me, dear, how far they 
are from here. 

Hamilton. About two hundred miles. 

Grace. I will write dear Ida to-day. How I do wish I could 
see her ! Can't we go, soon, and pay her a visit ? 

Hamilton. Yes, dear Grace ; as soon as I have arranged some 
business matters. 

Grace. Oh ! I am so glad ! 

[Enter Ida Sumner, and children, accompanied as far as the 
door by her husband.] 

Frank. Walk in the parlor, dear Ida, and take a seat ; I will 
come for you as soon as I have secured a room, and had our 
l^a,ggage taken up. 

Ida. Don't be long, Frank. * 

ChroAie. Frank — Ida! Oh! can it be? Ah, yes, 'tis! Oh, 
Ida I dear, dear Ida ! 



Oe, California in '49 and '50. 53 



Ida. Grace, Grace ! dearest Grace 1 {They kiss and embrace.) 
Why, dear Grace, how — how came you here ? Oh, what 
happiness to meet you, Grace ! 

Grace. Oh, Ida, Ida, my sweet friend, husband and I were 
just — 

Ida. Husband ? 

Grace. Ah, yes, ha ! ha ! ha! Permit me to introduce my 
husband — Mr, Hamilton. 

Ida. I am so glad ! oh, I am so happy to hear — Receive 
my heartfelt congratulations. 

Grace. Thanks, dear Ida. 

Hamilton. Thank you, Mrs. Sumner ; most happy to see you, 

Mrs Wentworth. Dear, dear child ; have you no words of 
welcome for me ? 

Ida. Oh ! Mrs, Wentworth, dear friend, you hear too ? and 
— and Mr, Wentworth, and — and George ? Oh ! oh ! I am so 
happy to see you all ! ah, what an agreeable surprise ! Oh ! oh I 

Mrs. Wentworth. 'Tis indeed a joyful meeting. I am so 
happy to see you, dear Ida ; and the dear children looking so 
well. 

Mr. Wentworth. Well now, I think, ladies, it is about time 
the gentlemen were permitted to speak. Ida, child, permit 
your father's friend to express his happiness at meeting again 
his sweet daughter. 

Ida. Dear sir, I am so happy — so delighted — to see you. 

George. And permit your husband's friend, and yours, to 
express his pleasure at seeing you. Mr. Sumner is well, I pre- 
sume, as I heard his voice at the door. 

Ida. Thank you, quite well ; and, oh ! how surprised and 
pleased he will be to see you all here. 

Grace. My dear little pets, little darlings, come here ; ain't 
you glad to see me? (Kisses them.) Say, little Gracie, my 
namesake ? {Takes her in her arms.) 

Gracie. Oh, yes ; so glad ! Oh ! look, mamma, what pretty 
ear-rings ! 

Ida. Yes, darling ; but don't touch ; you might break them. 

Grace. Oh, no ; she won't hurt them. But, dear Ida, tell us 
something of what has occurred since your arrival in California. 
We have all been so anxious on your account, for that wretch, 
Redington, took passage on the steamer that left but three days 
after the one on which you were passenger, and, as it was said 
to be the swiftest steamer of the line, we have been fearful he 
might have overtaken you before you could have reached your 
husband. Have you seen or heard aught of the villain ? 

Ida. Oh, yes, dear Grace, He did indeed overtake me, when 
but a short distance from the mines where my husband was. 
Disguised as a policeman, he was on the driver's seat of the 
3* 



54 The Devoted Wipe; • 

stage, thougli I did not recognize him till the next day, when, 
there being no conveyance to be had, I attemped to walk from 
the tavern, where I had stayed over night, to the mining camp, 
four miles distant. While traversing with my children the 
mountain canon, he overtook and seized me in his arms, and 
then — 

Grace. Oh ! oh ! the vile wretch ! And then, dear Ida ? 

Hamilton. The execrable scoundrel ! 

Oeorge. The unmitigated villain ! But pardon me ; proceed, 
Mrs. Sumner. 

Ida. Oh, dear friends, I cannot relate all at present. I can 
only add that I was rescued by two miners, the friends and 
partners of my husband, and that, meeting at the camp my dear 
husband, we were shortly after summoned by the Vigilance 
Committee, who had taken Mr. Redington a prisoner, to give 
our evidence concerning him, and that Redington drew a knife 
to stab dear Frank, and that, to prevent him, I threw myself 
upon Frank's bosom, and — and then, one they called Mountain 
Tom placed himself before us, and we s stabbed in the arm, and 
plunged his knife in Redington's heart, and the miners fired at 
and shot him, and he fell dead. 

Oeoi'ge. So the villain cheated the gallows after all ! 

Grace. Oh ! oh ! dear, dear Ida, what a narrow escape ! So, 
the wretch was killed. And, oh! that dear man you called 
Mountain Tom ! how I would like to see, and thank him, for 
saving your precious life ! 

Ida. Thank you, dear Grace. But tell me, dear, do you 
intend to make the city your home ? 

Grace. Yes, dear ; we all intend to reside in this city ; and 
if your home was only here, instead of so far away, I should be 
so happy, love. 

Ida. Oh, Grace, I am so glad I for we, too, have come here 
to live, and — 

Grace. Oh, darling, what happiness ! Oh! how — 

Enter Frank. What ! is it possible I have the pleasure of 
greeting Miss Wentworth ? 

Grace. No, sir ; utterly impossible, I assure you, Mr. Sum- 
ner — Mrs. Hamilton, if you please, sir, ha I ha ! ha ! 

Frank. Ah ! is that so ? Most happy to see you, Mrs. Ham- 
ilton, as also your husband. Receive my congratulations. 
How is it I have the pleasure of seeing you here, Grace ? come 
to pick up those fifty-thousand-dollar nuggets, I suppose, 
ha! ha! ha! 

Grace. Now, Mr. Sumner, you need not laugh at me ; but 
just please inform me if you paid two dollars for that hat of 
dear Ida's ? ha ! ha I ha 1 



Or, California in '49 and '50. 65 

Frank. Ha I ha I ha ! spare me, please ; let's call it quits 
ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Idn. Why, Grace, when we arrived at Sacramento, on our 
way down, Frank wanted to buy out the merchants, ha ! ha ! ha I 

Gra^e. Ah, indeed— the sensible fellow— improving, I see 
Now, James, dear, just take a lesson, please. 

Frank. I hope. Miss Went— excuse me— Mrs. Hamilton 
you left your father and mother both well. 

Grace. Father and mother will speak for themselves, sir. 
Say, mother, father, are you both well ? ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Frank. Is it possible ? {shaking hands) 

Mrs. Wentwarth. Quite possible, Mr. Sumner. 

Frank. This is indeed a day of pleasant surprises. Most 
happy to see you, Mrs. Wentworth— and looking well. Happy 
to see you, Mr. Wentworth— and you, George. 

Mr. Wentworth. And you, Frank, are looking well— much 
better than I expected to see you. 

F-ank. Thank you ; am quite well now. 

George. We little thought, when we parted, one year ago 
we were all to meet at San Francisco, and as Californians' 
ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Frank. I am truly happy to see you all here, and to know 
you have chosen the Golden City for your homes. But that is 
old Grizzly's voice— can't be mistaken. 

Grace. Old Grizzly ? 

Ida. Yes, oh ! yes. Frank, I am so glad ! 'Tis Mountain 
Tom, Grace, who saved my life and dear Frank's. He goes by 
the name of Old Grizzly, because he is a great hunter, and kills 
so many grizzly bears. Ah ! here he is. 

[Runs up to Mountain Tom as he enters ; takes both his 
hands in her own.] 

Ida. Oh, dear Mountain Tom ! I am so glad to s-ee you. 

Mountain Tom. Wal, now, pooty one, I knowed it ; shure 
you'd be glard to see old Tom. Thart ar chap down below, 
with store-clothes on, tried to stop me coming up hare ; said as 
how my fixins warn't zactly the thing for the parlor, and 
presence of ladies. Just told him to dry up, and stand aside, or 
I'd lift his har, shure. Reconed whar little pooty one and 
Frank war, thar I war welcome— dorg-goned if I didn't, ha! ha! ha! 

Ida. Certainly, Tom ; ever welcome — most heartily welcome. 

Frank. You were right, Tom ; none more welcome than 
yourself. 

Tom. I knowed it, Frank ; yet am glard to hear you and 
pooty one say so. But who bees these folki— thart are tother 
pooty gal, and them old folks, thar? 



56 The Devoted Wife; 

Ida. Ha! ha! ha! — friends, Tom. This is my dear friend, 
Grace ; and — 

Tom. Your friend ? tharn I's must shake hands with she, 
shure Glard to see you, Miss ; dorg-goned if you isn't real 
pooty, too — not quite so pooty as Frank's leetle woman ; but 
real good looking, tho' — dorg-goned if you isn't. 

Orace. Thanks — ha ! ha ! ha ! — but, oh ! you dear, dear man ! 
how I — 

Tom. Thart's so, Miss ; your head's level thar — dorg-goned 
if 'tain't ! It is as you say, Miss : I's a deer man, and no mis- 
take ; harve shot a powerful sight of deer in my day, and bars, 
too. Yes, thart's so ; I's a deer man, shure. 

Orace. Oh ! oh ! ha ! ha ! ha ! but I don't think you under- 
stand me, sir ; I mean — 

Tom. Wal, Miss, p'raps not zactly ; but, you see, old Tom 
hain't got no laming ; was fotched up in the woods and moun- 
tains, and never went to no schule. Once, thar war a chap up 
the mountains, said as how he'd larn me hows to read. Wal, 
he fotched a little book, showed me whart he called the — the 
Al-you-bet — yes, thart's it — the Alyoubet. Wal, he showed I's 
a letter, ars he called it, art the top, and said it war A ; tharn, 
arter awhile, he showed I tliart same letter, only turned bottom 
side up, and said it war V. I jist told him 'twarn't so — if 'twar 
A right side up, in course it war A bottom side up — thart turn- 
ing it over didn't make no sorter difference — thart 'twar A all 
the same. He said it warn't. Tharn I told him didn't warnt to 
hear nothin' more 'bout thart ar Alyoubet. Tharn he said he 
would show me anoder Alyoubet. He pointed to a letter at the 
top. Told him I hard enough 'bout A — to go on. Then he 
showed me anoder letter ; said it war b ; tharn, a leetle furder, 
showed me thart same letter, only 'twar hind side for, and said 
it war d ; and tharn, arter awhile, showed me thart ar same 
letter, only 'twar turned tother end up, and said it war a p ; and 
tharn, wharn I hern thart, jist told him to go to thunder with 
his Alyoubet — didn't warnt to hare nothin' more of no sich 
foolishness — dorg-goned if I did. So, thart's the only time old 
Tom ever tried to get any larning. Never seed the use on it, 
nohow. Kin shoot jist zactly ars wal ars tho' I knowed the 
Alyoubet from top to bottom — dorg-goned if I karn't, {AU 
laugh ) 

Frank. Ha ! ha ! ha ! So, Tom, it appears you did not make 
progress in the Alyoubet ; did not take kindly to learning, ha ! 
ha ! But, Tom, where have you been the last month ? 

Tom. In the mountains, Frank, worrying the grizzlies, till 
'bout a week ago, I's started for Frisco. Hern a feller down in 
the bar-room tell anoder chap to take Mr. Frank Sumner's 



Or, California in '49 and '50, 57 

trunks upstars ; so, soon's I hard yous and pooty one war up 
hare, I's puts right straight for hare — dorg-goned if I's didn't. 

Frank. That was right, Tom ; always glad to see you. 

Enter Servant. Mr. Sumner, your room is ready, sir ; the 
trunks carried up. Here is the key to the room, sir. 

Frank Thank you. {Ekit Servant.) 

Tom. Wal, now, who did you say these tother folks is ? 

Grace. My parents, sir. This is my mother, and — 

Tom. Whart ! the old woman ? Wal, now, I's glard to see 
you {shaking heartily her hand); rale spritely-looking for an old 
woman. How is you? how does you like Californy? 

Mrs.Wentworth. .Ha! ha! ha! I am quite well, sir, thank 
you, and most happy to make the acquaintance of the preserver 
of the lives of my cherished friends. 

Tom. Don't zactly knows whart you is talking about ; recon 
it's all right. 'Spects this ar the old man. 

Mrs. Wentworth. Ha ! ha ! ha ! my husband, sir — Mr. Went- 
worth. 

Tom (slapping Mr. Wentworth on the back, then shaking 
heartily his hand). Wal, now, how is you, old feller ? — looking 
hearty. 

Mr. Wentworth. Quite well, sir; happy to make your 
acquaintance. Mountain Tom, make you acquainted with my 
son, George Wentworth. 

Tom. Glard to see you, George. How is you ? Looks some 
like the old woman. 

George. Ha ! ha ! pleased to make your acquaintance. Moun- 
tain Tom. Should like to join you in some of your mountain 
trips, and try my rifle on those grizzly bears. 

Tom. All right, George ; glard to hear on it. Wal, old 
man, smart chap thart of yourn ; got grit ; wants to tackle the 
grizzlies right off, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Grace. And now, sir, permit me to introduce my husband — 
Mr. James Ham — 

Tom. Glard to see you, Jim. Mighty pooty leetle woman 
you's got, and no mistake — dorg-goned if she ain't. But whart 
in thunderation am thart? {The sound of a gong is heard, as 
from beloic — 7iot too loud.) Recon all the plates and dishes in 
the house gone to tarnal smash. {All laugh.) 

Frank. Ha ! ha ! ha ! No, Tom, guess the crockery is all 
safe, ha ! ha ! ha ! that, Tom, is the gong. 

Tom. A gorng ? whart you calls thart ? 

George. Have you never seen a gong, sir ? 

Tom. No ; never seen no sich — But, thunderation ! if thar 
'tain't a-goin' it wusser and wusser. {The gong is heard on the 
same floor, as approaching the door — very loud) 



58 Thb Devoted Wife; 

Frank. Ha I ha ! ha ! that, Tom, is the first call to dinner ; 
hear it again in half an hour. 

Tom. Never warnt to hear thart ar thing 'gin long ars I 
lives; it ar wusser tharn Injuns' war whoops. Injuns' yells 
ain't no whar ; rather, a heap site, hare wolves howl and pan- 
thers scream — dorg-goned if I hadn't. Sharl jist git right 
straight back to the mountains, whar I can eat my grub with 
out no sicli 'farnal racket and tarnal foolishness. If you warnt 
to see anything more of old Tom, will harve to come to the 
mountains ; I's done with your city of Frisco — dorg-goned if I 
isn't. 

Frank. Ha ! ha ! ha ! don't leave us, Tom ; you will soon 
get used to the sound of the gong. 

Ida. Oh, Tom, please don't go. 

Tom . No, Frank ; no, pooty one ; don't ax me to stay hare ; 
thought old Tom could stand anything, but thart ar gorng gets 
me. So, good bye ; must be off 'fore it starts on anoder roar. 

Ida. Oh ! I am so sorry. Good bye — good bye, Mountain 
Tom. 

Tom. Good bye, pooty one. Good bye, Frank. 

Frank. Good bye, Tom, We shall be up to the mines occa- 
sionally ; so hope to see you soon. 

Grace. I shall visit, with my friends, the mines ; so hope 
soon to have the pleasure of seeing you. 

Hamilton. Yes, Mountain Tom ; hope we shall soon meet 
again. 

Oeorge. Shall certainly come up to the mountains to join 
you in some of your hunting excursions. 

Tom. All right, George ; be glard to see you all ; carn't 
starnd your city ways, nohow. I's off. Good bye, all. 

Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth. Good bye. Mountain Tom ; good 
bye, sir. 

All. Good bye. Good bye. {Exit Mountain Tom.) 

Ida. Oh ! oh ! I am so sorry he left us. 

Orace. And 1. Oh ! the dear, brave man ! to think he saved 
your so precious life, darling ! {Places her arm around Ida.) 

Ida. And dear Frank's. May Heaven bless him ever ! 

Frank. Yes ; may good fortune ever be his ! We can never 
hope to cancel our indebtedness to him. 

Mrs. WenUcorth. We must ever bear him in grateful remem- 
brance. But, oh ! oh ! he was so odd — so amusing, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mr. Wentworth. Uncouth in his ways, certainly ; the beau 
ideal of a backwoodsman, ha ! ha ! ha! 

Hamilton. A veritable Leatherstocking, ha ! ha ! ha 1 

Oeorge. A true mountaineer. 

Grace. Oh ! I do think he was splendid ; indeed I do. Were 
it not too late, I think I should have lost my heart, ha 1 ha 1 ha ! 



Or, California in '49 and '50. 59 

Frank. As you observed, Mr. Wentworth, Mountain Tom is 
rude in manner and speech — the casket is rough, but the gem 
within is bright. No truer man, or stauncher friend, is to be 
found, than my friend Tom of the Mountains. 

Ida. True, true, dear Frank. 

Grace. Dear, dear Ida ! how happy we shall be in our new 
homes — together every day. Oh ! we will have such pleasant 
sails on this delightful bay ; such nice rides and drives among 
the hills ; and — 

Frank. Ha ! ha ! ha ! what are we gentlemen to do ? it 
appears we are left out of those pleasant excursions. 

Grace. Oh, no, sirs ; we shall make you useful ; have you to 
manage the boat, and drive for us, sirs. 

Hamilton. Shall be pleased, fair ladies, to render the re- 
quired service. 

Ida. Thanks, sir. {Goes to the side of her husband.) 

Mrs. Wentworth. We may hope this so pleasant reunion is 
an omen of happy days. 

Mr. Wentworth. I doubt not we shall all enjoy residing in the 
city of San Francisco. You, fair Ida, the devoted wife, and you, 
Frank, my young friend, have experienced many troubles and 
tribulations ; but the past year of gloom is now succeeded by 
bright promises of the future. Let us hope you have left, on 
the shores of the stormy Atlantic, the dark clouds of adversity 
and sorrow ; and that here, on these Pacific shores, only bright 
and pleasant days may dawn upon your future ; and that this 
Golden City, our chosen home, may prove for you and us all, a 
true Elysium. 

[At close, Ida is leaning upon the bosom of her husband, one 
of his arms encircling her waist ; the children near them. 
Grace leans upon the arm of her husband. All to the front.] 

Curtain Falls. 



ERRATA : 

Page of Costumes. — For Harry Logan, read Hakry Hogan. 

Page 18 (ninth paragraph from top). — In place of " Ha ! ha I 
ha ! don't think that Bill will get — " read " don't think that 
Jim will get — " 

Page 20 (second paragraph from top). — For name of speaker, 
at margin, in place of Bill, read, Jim. 



.LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



016 102 463 3 ^ 



